


Dead Revolutionaries' Society

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 19:14:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/701718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alcohol never brought anyone any good, Enjolras realizes when he wakes up one morning with someone's arm draped across his chest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Grantaire is drawn to Enjolras like moth to a flame.

Everyone but Enjolras himself has noticed it, but no one ever said anything.

Grantaire's very grateful.

 

He guesses it's the way Enjolras speaks, all fire and passion and ideals shining through his eyes, his mouth moving angrily, spitting out words of rebellion and convictions so hard they might've been steel and it's practically impossible to look away. Grantaire thinks it's rather wonderful.

Enjolras doesn't use words like 'wonderful', except when he's talking about equality or liberty or some other vague, unobtainable idea only he thinks is possible. Grantaire tells him that, daily.

The only way he knows how to talk with this strange, angelic looking man, is to tease and argue and taunt from behind of his beer, and hide his smiles when Enjolras turns to retort, eyes ablaze.

After a while he abandons the whole act, and openly grins while fighting with Enjolras about near-everything, enjoying the way his eyes are now, just for this little point in time, fixed only and solely on Grantaire.

It is entirely futile, he knows, and his small attempts at flirting won't get him anywhere - Enjolras is stone, rock and marble, oblivious to anything but his visions of the future and ways to get there.

But Grantaire, strangely, doesn't give up when he realizes this, like he gave up on pretty much everything else in his life. He just keeps coming back into the little cafe, where all Enjolras' friends come for drinks and inevitable discussions about the third wave of feminism, which Enjolras _obviously_ knows everything about, more even than Eponine, a Women's Studies major.

They all accept Grantaire pretty quickly and easily, letting him slip into the little group despite Enjolras' vague, unspoken disapproval.

 

 

*****

It's not as Enjolras hates Grantaire. It's not like that at all.

But he has more important things to do than to argue all day with half-drunk skeptics who love to challenge him just a bit too much.

Secretly, he likes it.

Grantaire is the first person in his life who isn't afraid to step up to the line and call him out when he needs calling out. He is the first person not to waver and fall silent when Enjolras starts one of his Speeches. Considering Enjolras' first grade teachers learned very quickly how to awkwardly side-step around the child's pointed questions, and his debate opponents in high school could only stutter and muster up a few weak sentences when faced with his passion (at the time he was just labeled as over-enthusiastic), it is one of the most refreshing things in his life.

Sure, he now has Combeferre and Corfeyrac, but even they could at times get tired of his late night rants, and simply give up discussing in favor of some sleep. Eponine had some good ideas, but a lack of eloquence to prove them so.

Grantaire always had the right question, the right words, the right remark. Somewhere in that booze drenched brain was a great mind. If only he didn't smile so infuriatingly whenever he posed a rather difficult counter-argument. It made Enjolras harder to concentrate.

 

 

*****

It's a busy Friday night at the Le Musain, and the group is squeezed in one corner of the café, knocking elbows as they grumble about the unusual number of people. They would never admit it, but they think of the cafe as 'theirs', in the loosest way possible. Courfeyrac stumbled upon it quite accidentally one rainy afternoon, and before they knew it, they all started going there every day after classes, drinking cheap coffee (and in Enjolras' case, green tea) and lounging for hours in old, comfy chairs, practically owning the whole top floor, to the mixture of annoyance and amusement of the owners.

It's a small, shabby café, with smudged windowpanes and uneven table legs, but it fits them like a glove. Now it was strangely overcrowded, what with the ending of the semester, and the start of the holidays right around the corner, people hurling for celebratory drinks wherever they could manage.

There are only 6 of them present at the moment: Enjolras, engrossed in reading the newest world news on his phone and oblivious to the looks a couple of sorority girls from the table close to their booth keep sending his way, Combeferre, somber looking, bespectacled Philosophy major, involved in a discussion with Courfeyrac, a well dressed, charming Pre-Law major with an open, friendly kind of face.

Next to him sits Jehan, deeply absorbed in his book of Keats' poems, and absently tugging on the sleeve of his oversized, lavender coloured sweater. Eponine and Grantaire are making fun of the sorority girls' awestruck expressions  with the open nastiness of the slightly tipsy, and not one of them notices when an indeed happy looking Marius practically waltzes in and heads straight for their booth.

Looking at Marius was like looking at a Muppet trying very hard to survive in real life. He moved his limbs in a way that suggested he didn't really know how to use them, like he was a boy just gone through puberty, and left with fifteen new inches of height and a whole lot of wobbly knees.

He watched the world with all the amazement and enthusiasm of a five year old, which made him endearing most of the time.

"Ladies and gentlemen", he announces, finally reaching their secluded table, "I am in love!"

There is a silence.

"Well", he says, his smile almost frightening, "aren't you going to say something? Or at least ask me who she is?"

"That's... nice", offers Combeferre. "Who's the lucky... er... she?"

"Only the most wonderful, spectacular, beautiful girl I've ever met!", exclaims Marius, throwing himself down on a chair and melting against it as if he's unable to hold himself upright anymore.

"Cute", says Enjolras, not looking up from his phone. "And 300 people went on a hunger strike today in Egypt. How about _that_?"

Marius ignores him, eagerly launching into the story.

"I was running down by the C buildings this morning, and I was late for class, and I thought, this is it, Valjean is actually going to kill me this time, and I rounded the corner and bam! We ran into each other!"

He lifts both of his hands suddenly, to demonstrate the ferocity of the collision.

"Eponine, is something wrong?", asks Jehan quietly, peering over his book at the girl beside him, whose face suddenly resembles a thundercloud.

"No", she returns aggressively, almost snarling. "Everything's just peachy, shut up and listen to the story."

Jehan looks away, seemingly unfazed by her sudden hostility - behind the small, delicate face hid nerves of steel. You need nerves of steel if you want to be male and still pull off floral printed jeans in an university consisting mostly of red-faced football players.

"...so I helped her pick up her books, and then, _then,_ she looked at me with these _amazing_ blue eyes, and she smiled, and you guys, I think I forgot how to breathe for a moment there. So, anyway, she said 'thank you' and I said 'not a problem, any time' and she said her name's Cosette-"

There is a loud clatter as Eponine almost knocks over her beer bottle. Marius doesn't even notice it, lost in a world of his own, a world apparently consisting of petite blondes with names like Cosette. Grantaire, however, turns to stare at the dark haired girl, his eyes suspicious.

"I don't think she has a Facebook, she doesn't seem the type. She's kind of vaguely hipster-ish, but I like her all the same. No, strike that, I love her. Double strike that, I will _worship_ the ground she walks on, if we ever meet again, which is so not likely when you live on a campus large as this one-"

Combeferre and Courfeyrac exchange a look, and Courf's grin is both amused and evil.

"23 people dead after a political protest in Zambia", announces Enjolras.

Jehan and Courfeyrac make faces at the same time.

"Let's not talk about those things tonight, Enjolras", Corfeyrac says, slouched lazily in the darkest part of the booth. His eyes follow people moving about the cafe, lingering on a few more attractive ones here and there.

"It's the end of the semester! Tonight should be all about p-a-r-t-"

"Please stop spelling 'partying', it's a rather long word, you might get it wrong", replies Enjolras drily.

Courfeyrac covers his mouth in exaggerated, fake shock.

"I'm with him on this one", Jehan says, trying to make it sound like it isn't just because the party he would most like to attend is the one in Courf's pants.

"Yeah, let's get wasted!", Grantaire shouts, mockingly enthusiastic.

Amazingly enough, they all agree.

 *****

The club is loud and filled with throbbing, pink and blue neon lights, and Enjolras knows this _so_ isn't his scene. It probably isn't anyone of theirs' scene, except maybe for Courfeyrac, who cheerfully pushes his way through the crowd to get himself a drink, and Eponine, who struts her way angrily to the center of the dance floor and immediately starts dancing with a tall stranger who looks pleasantly surprised at the sudden appearance of the short, brown haired girl, swaying her hips at him.

To Enjolras' right, Combeferre looks extremely uncomfortable as he follows her with his eyes.

To his left, Marius looks downright frightened.

Grantaire is already nowhere to be found.

The three of them find an abandoned table close to the dance floor, and watch drunk people shake to the constant, unchanging beat.

Some way away, a muscular guy is pressing himself up against Jehan, who has maybe had a Manhattan too many, because he his arms up in the air, and is shaking his head in a way that suggests he doesn't exactly knows what he's doing, but he'll give his damn best doing it.

Just a few feet from them, Courfeyrac is dancing with a tall redheaded girl with a pixie cut, craning his neck every few second to stare nervously Jehan's way.

And then, Enjolras sees him.

Grantaire, in the middle of the floor, moving in a way that is definitely obscene, grinding up against a curvy girl in a black tank top, moving his hands lazily across the sides of her body, until they come to rest on her hips, which she circles around like she knows what she's doing.

Something lurches in Enjolras' stomach.

Grantaire swings his own hips in response to the girl's, and buries his face in her neck, and there is no way, _no way_ that's decent, and Enjolras wants to look away but he can't.

He has often thought Grantaire was attractive, but in a detached, observational kind of way. All of his friends were reasonably good-looking people, and he didn't bother himself that much with it. But now, with alcohol running through his veins, and the club's strobe lights high-lighting people's silhouettes, he finds himself watching Grantaire's hands and the way his grey t-shirt is falling on his shoulders and the way he bites his lower lip, and he feels his skin buzzing with something he can't quite still put a finger on.

The girl leans over to whisper something in Grantaire's ear, and after a moment he shakes his head with an apologetic smile, and lets go of her.

Moments later, he joins the little table, shaking little drops of sweat from his hair.

"That was intense!", he says gleefully, reaching to take a sip of Enjolras' drink.

Enjolras is too stunned to even object.

Grantaire is wet all over, and his shirt clings to his body, and everything else is pretty much unimportant in Enjolras' eyes right now. He wonders how it would feel, Grantaire's hands on his own hips, on his waist, pulling him close.

"I think I'm gonna go home", Combeferre says, his eyes fixed on the flurry of Eponine's dark brown hair dominating the podium, while she changes partners with a sort of agressive passion.

"Thank God, I didn't want to say it first", Marius sighs in relief, and the two of them exit the club, all but running away.

Enjolras, against all of his better judgment, doesn't leave. It's probably got something with the way Grantaire's eyes are shining in the dark, and the way his mouth look very, very red.

The music in the club is too loud for Enjolras' good, and his head feels cozy and distant, as the world around him spins, and the bass thumps in his ears.

Grantaire looks over at him, and says something, a smile playing at his lips.

Enjolras leans in so he can hear him better.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Enjolras and Grantaire Don’t Want to Talk About It (except they really, really do), we meet Cosette, and Eponine has a new acquaintance.

Enjolras wakes up, and there is something in his bed.

Last night is hazy in his mind: he remembers large amounts of different kinds of alcohol, and Grantaire's lopsided smile as they did shots, because Grantaire said Enjolras probably couldn't hold his drink, anyway, and Enjolras always rises to a challenge, like the stubborn, proud idiot he is.

The last thing he can remember is Grantaire's face, very close to his, as they argued drunkenly about something probably extremely unimportant.

But there is something, or someone in his bed, and a second later he realizes there is an arm draped heavily over his waist, and he is, for a moment, too afraid to look behind him. Then he does.

It's Grantaire.

Grantaire, asleep in Enjolras' bed, his arm possessively laying on Enjolras stomach, his nose buried in Enjolras' pillow.

Nothing happens for a few minutes.

Enjolras lifts the the bed sheet very, very slowly.

They are both clothed.

Not clothed enough.

He untangles himself very carefully from Grantaire's sleeping embrace, and slips out of the room.

He needs to find a pair of pants. Now.

 

The kitchen is very bright compared to the comfortable darkness of his bedroom, and he winces as he walks barefoot over the cold tiled floor. Courfeyrac is drinking coffee by the counter, looking thoughtful, but when he spots Enjolras, his face lights up instantly.

"Heeey there, stud", he says with a big smile, his voice cracked and rough.

"I have a good morning story for you. Coffee?"

Enjolras nods, feeling his stomach tying itself into knots. He lowers himself slowly into one of the uncomfortable bar chairs, feeling his head might explode. He thinks about the slumbering, shirtless Grantaire in his room, his dark curls spilling over Enjolras' pillow, and something heavy throws itself around his stomach. He feels nauseous.

"So all you bastards disappeared from the club last night without even informing me", starts Courfeyrac, at a blasphemously loud voice. It echoes in Enjolras' head painfully, bouncing off the hypothetical walls of his brain. He groans.

"Which, okay, I can tolerate that, because chances are you would've interrupted me during a particularly interesting exchange with this girl I met there, and when I say exchange, I mean an exchange of saliva, not an exchange of meaningful conversation. Did you see her? Alice. Lovely girl. I think she's American. Anyway", Courf takes a big sip of his coffee before continuing, "I come to the flat, somewhere around 3am, trying my best to be really quiet not to wake you and Combeferre, because I'm great like that. And, as I'm entering the living room, I come to the conclusion that I needn't have bothered because already, someone in the flat is being really, _really_ loud."

He sneaks a sly glance at Enjolras' face, which has lost all colour.

"Not to pry or anything", he continues, putting his mug in the sink, "but the noise was coming out of your room. Frankly, I'm amazed Combeferre hasn't run out of the place, screaming. That man sleeps like the dead, I swear. And, might I also add, there were some very _impressive_ sounds. Not that I was listening. It was hard not to listen, actually. Our walls are _so shitty_."

 _It really did happen_ , Enjolras thinks, feeling like snakes have taken up temporary residence inside his inner organs.

"So, what I really want to know", Courf says, leaning over the counter, "is who did you bang, you old dog, you? Last time I saw you, you were arguing with Grantaire, as per usual. Not a very sexy way to start your night. Who got lucky yesterday?"

And Grantaire chooses the perfect moment to enter the kitchen, in nothing but his grey t-shirt and boxers, running fingers sleepily through his hair. He decidedly avoids Enjolras' eyes.

Courfeyrac turns silent.

Enjolras feels like he's in one of those really bad sitcoms.

 

When Courfeyrac excuses himself to 'go and get dressed' (except they can both hear him laughing in his room), the silence in the kitchen turns unpleasant.

"So, we", says Grantaire, looking at his coffee like it's the most interesting thing in the room right now. There is a bite mark on his shoulder, red against the paleness of his skin.

 _Did I put that there_ , Enjolras wonders.

He must have.

"Yeah, we... yeah", he agrees, staring fixedly at the wall.

"Well", says Grantaire, biting his lip.

"Yeah", Enjolras says, feeling like that's the only word he knows anymore.

"We don't need to talk about, if you don't want to", Grantaire says quickly, all in one go. "It's all alright, we were drunk... and things like this happen. It's all cool."

"Yeah", repeats Enjolras, mentally slapping himself. Where is his fucking eloquence now?

"Alright", says Grantaire, looking up at him, his eyes a vivid green. "So we're... okay?"

"Yes", manages Enjolras, thoroughly embarrassed of his way of handling of the situation.

Grantaire is actually being the mature one here.

It's unbelievable.

 

******

Enjolras does actually want to talk about it, except _not_ with Courfeyrac, who, unsurprisingly, hasn't shut up about it since Grantaire found his pants and hurriedly disappeared from their flat, and Courf came out of his room with a horrible, terrifying grin on his face.

He talks about it until Enjolras threatens to hit him with the vacuum cleaner, and then shuts up for about five minutes, before continuing to talk about it.

It's been a long morning.

So when Courf disappears for a couple of hours to actually _go_ to his fucking classes,  after promising he won't tell anyone ("Honestly, Enjolras, who do you take me for?"), and Combeferre wakes up and stumbles out of his room at around noon, Enjolras is so, so grateful to have him, this smart, serious, and above all, _quiet_ young man, as his best friend.

"I slept with Grantaire last night", he shoots out before he can even think, just impatient to have someone else share in on the secret, someone to understand the enormous mess he's gotten himself into.

Combeferre blinks.

"Yes, I know", he replies, "Courf woke me up a few hours ago specifically to share that information. Do we have any honey?"

Enjolras is utterly defeated. The big revelation is out there, and Combeferre doesn't look particularly shocked, or upset, or angry, or confused, or any other feeling Enjolras is experiencing right at this moment.

"You don't sound surprised", he says, a little grumpily. He wanted him to be.

He wants this to be a great big shock for everyone, something so unexpected and unforeseen, because deep down, he is starting to realize that maybe it wasn't.

"Yes, well, that's because I'm not", Combeferre replies calmly, putting some water on the stove.

"What do you mean, you're not?", Enjolras asks, his eyes narrowing.

"Because every fool could see the guy's been pining over you for months. And there was always, well, a certain amount of _friction_ between you two-"

"There was _never_ ", Enjolras starts, taken aback, before he promptly shuts his mouth.

He stares at the wall for a minute or two, while Combeferre makes himself a cup of tea.

"Maybe, at times", Enjolras admits reluctantly when Combeferre sits down next to him.

"Maybe all the time", Combeferre replies, a little smugly, before fixing his eyes on his Philosophy textbook.

"Now that you worked that tension out, maybe you can talk for more than five minutes without getting all up in each other's faces, how about that?"

"Yeah", agrees Enjolras, a little distantly.

 

******

There is a very panicked looking Grantaire at her door.

Eponine opens it suspiciously, only for him to burst in, and start talking rapidly, waving his arms about.

She catches 'Enjolras' and 'last night' and it's more than enough for her to realize she can't deal with this without caffeine in her system. In her head, a lone drummer on ecstasy is beating out his best rhythms.

She listens while he explains and argues with himself and tells her he barely remembers anything except he woke up in Enjolras' room in his underwear and how Enjolras' face was as red as, well, something very red, and how he could barely even look at him, and how he fucked everything up, again, like he always does, and how-

"I never wanted it to happen like this", he says, and then clasps a hand firmly on his mouth.

There is a moment.

Eponine takes a long sip of her coffee.

"You, my friend", she says, "are so fucked up. And that's a lot, coming from me." 

 

******

When Grantaire leaves, in the same hysterical mood he arrived in, Eponine sighs.

Her head still feels like a giant, bloated melon with a marching band crammed inside it, and no amount of water she gulps down will help it. _Thank God I don't have classes today_ , she thinks, deciding to go back to bed.

Her bedroom smells of men's perfume, strong but pleasant, and she takes a moment to glance at her messy sheets before she sighs and sinks into the mattress again.

Her mind travels slowly to the guy she met last night, the tall, dark stranger who smelled of cigarette smoke and whose kisses felt like a tip of a blade. He didn't call her cute, or dear, and he certainly wasn't friendly. He was... sharp. She absently touches the hickey hidden on her collarbone, and shivers with the memory. Last night was dangerous, and his hands were rough, and she liked it.

What even was his name?

And then, with a pang of guilt, she remembers Marius' earnest face last night and the way he looked, talking about Cosette. There is a painful stab of jealousy in her stomach, but over it lays more guilt.

Eponine didn't get to where she is today by being childish, and petty, and selfish.

She needs to tell Marius. It would make him happy.

So she takes her phone and dials his number and when he answers cheerfully, she can practically hear the smile on his face.

"Hey, Eponine! I was just about to call you! Did you get safe home last night?"

She can't help but grin a little, too. Marius was oblivious, and stupid, and incredibly hurtful when he didn't even mean to be, but his kindness makes her melt on the inside every time.

Not many people in Eponine's life were kind to her before Marius showed up.

"Hey", she says, already feeling better, "yeah, no, I was fine. It was all alright. Listen, there was something I wanted to tell you."

There is a polite silence at the other end of the line.

"That girl you were talking about yesterday? Coset-"

The line explodes in her ear, and she winces and has to pull the phone away, in fear of damaging her hearing.

"Stop shouting", she says to the phone, a mixture of annoyed and amused.

He quiets promptly, with an embarrassed 'sorry'.

"Yeah, so... Her name's Cosette Fauchelevaunt, and she works as a photographer in the uni's newspaper. And no, she doesn't have a Facebook, you were right about that, but if you hurry up you'll probably catch her working, shooting some stuff down in the park. She's doing a photo essay about November on campus, so."

She takes a long, ragged breath, hating herself and knowing she's doing the right thing, after all.

"We're kind of friends, so I know this stuff, okay. We have a couple of classes together."

There is nothing but silence at the other end.

"Marius, go!", she snaps, irritated, and hears a crash and a fumble and a muttered 'fuck!' as he jumps up and knocks his head on the too-low ceiling of his dorm room.

Smiling bitterly, she hangs up.

 

*****

Marius takes no time before he's running down campus, tripping over his own feet a couple of times. His scarf is flapping wildly around his neck and if he took a moment to reflect on it, he would surely realize the ridiculousness of the situation. He, however, doesn't.

To Marius, the whole world is a Disney movie.

 

A petite figure is crouched in front of the university's library, taking a picture of a fallen leaf with a heavy, professional looking camera. She looks lost in the moment, carefully angling the lens, oblivious to the world around her. He halts awkwardly a few feet behind her, barely avoiding being hit by a screaming bicyclist.

Cosette's long blonde hair is in a casual braid and she is wearing the same dark blue coat she was wearing yesterday, and Marius feels breathless, and not only from the frantic sprinting (but yes, mostly from the frantic sprinting).

"Er", he says, the prince of eloquence.

Cosette turns abruptly around, her seemingly annoyed expression turning into a surprised one when she sees Marius, flushed and still panting, his coat unbuttoned and his scarf hanging limply around his neck.

"Oh, it's you again", she says, trying to hide just how pleasantly surprised she really is. "I never did catch your name, you know. You ran off."

"Yes, I was - um - I was late to class", Marius breathes out.

They look at each other for a moment.

"Well?", she quirks her eyebrow, amused.

For a moment he looks as though he has no idea what she's talking about, and then it comes to him.

"Right! Yes! My name! I'm Marius", he offers his hand, which she accepts, smiling.

"Sorry about the whole - sorry, anyway."

"I'm Cosette, again. In case you forgot."

"I could never", he says, a little too earnestly, and then goes red in the face.

She bites her lip to keep her from grinning from ear to ear.

"So, Marius", she says, testing out the name in her mouth. It sounds nice. "Want to keep me some company while I work?"

 

***** 

There is someone standing in front of Eponine's building when she comes back late from work that night.

He's dressed all in black and his eyes are hidden in cigarette smoke, and he is leaning casually, yet elegantly against the wall.

"Missed me yet?", he grins at her as she unlocks the front door, very determinedly not looking at him.

"I don't even know your name", Eponine says.

She doesn't know how to feel about this.

She's flattered and uncomfortable at the same time, if that's possible.

He flicks the cigarette on the ground, and stands on it with the point of his leather boot.

"Montparnasse. Pleased to meet you. And you're Eponine."

"How did you-"

"Says so on your apartment door. Do you think I'm some kind of an idiot?"

She looks him up and down, and doesn't say a word.

"So. Are you going to invite me up or what?"

"I think I'll pass", she replies, amused.

"And why?"

"Does there have to be a reason?"

He looks at her, obviously impressed.

"Well", he says, after a pause, "that's a first."

"What's the matter, big boy, never got turned down?", she says, biting her lip in an attempt not to smile.

He leans in closer, so he has her cornered against the wall. She can smell his perfume, musky and strong, the same smell that is still lingering in the air in her bedroom and it takes all her will to look up at him with indifference in her eyes.

"Never", he mutters softly, his lips just an inch away from hers, and then pulls back suddenly.

"Good night... Eponine", he says. "Don't forget me. I'll be back soon."

And then he wanders off into the night.

She stares after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why, but I have this very clear image of Cosette being a photographer. I think it suits her personality very much, a sense of aesthetics mixed with the practice of watching the world from a distance (this time from behind of a camera lens).


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Enjolras messes up a speech, Eponine gets flowers and Courfeyrac feels like a clumsy bag of potatoes.

It’s Monday afternoon, and the café is pleasantly empty, and so they occupy the whole top floor without much guilt.

Everyone loves these kind of days, when they can treat the café as a big living room, and spread over five different tables, loudly arguing amongst themselves.

In the corner, Marius is texting Cosette with a look of complete serenity on his face; Eponine watches him from the corner of her eye as she sips her tea and absently listens to Bahorel informing everyone of Bossuet’s latest misfortune - he managed to trip on one of Feuilly’s paint buckets and fall down a flight of stairs, knocking out two of his teeth on the way down.

“He’ll be alright”, says Bahorel, with a maybe too cheerfull kind of smile, and Feuilly shakes his head and takes a long drag of his cigarette, looking worried.

One table down, Enjolras is enraged with a local politician trying to shut down the nearby animal shelter, and Jehan, Joly, Combeferre and Courfeyrac are listening to his monologue with a kind of captured, concentrated silence only one of his speeches can provoke in them.

“They say the city’s overrun with stray, sick dogs, and yet they want to shut down the only shelter in the 10 mile perimeter! They don’t promote castration, which is the most diplomatic, least painful solution, no. Instead they let them breed, and when people throw them out on the street, they close the only shelter in the neighbourhood and then complain when they see a starving, ugly looking dog eating out of their garbage can. They expect that-“

It’s only when Grantaire stumbles in, his coat collar pushed up against the cold wind, that Enjolras stutters and loses his train of thoughts.

“I-er-what was I saying?”, he mutters, looking away guiltily.

At the bar, Grantaire is ordering a drink, looking completely unaware of the effect he is producing.

“The importance of well advertised castration, if they want to escape more problems like this in the future”, Combeferre reminds him quietly.

“Yes, I, yes. And what are we left with, today, when all the talk is done? 30 dogs and more than 50 cats will be put down by the weekend, and… and…”

Grantaire has silently taken up a chair by the table, and is drinking his Irish coffee with a look of complete innocence on his face.

“…and?”, asks Joly, confused.

“I think what he’s trying to say is that the animals are falling victims to the system. Being killed for nothing more than being born”, says Combeferre, taking the matter in his own hands.

Enjolras looks down, embarrassed. He has never messed up a speech before.

He can feel Grantaire’s eyes on him, but he ignores it.

The conversation continues around them. 

He doesn’t know what’s changed. Maybe it was the first time he woke up  to the sound of someone breathing softly next to him, and found that he liked it.

Even if that someone was Grantaire, with his dry sarcasm and stubborn skepticism, and the persistent, problematic drinking.

_Especially_  if that someone was Grantaire, with lips curling mischievously upward after every teasing remark, and a clever mouth that proved to be clever at more than just talking.

A memory surges to his mind, an image of Grantaire’s lips trailing wetly, sloppily against his skin, while his hands, surprisingly strong, pushed him down… He shudders.

Grantaire looks away.

***** 

They are now, very decisively, okay.

Except they have stopped talking, stopped arguing, stopped… being themselves, really.

Ever since The Incident, as Enjolras calls it in his head, they have exchanged polite nods, murmured ‘hi’s, and nothing else. No fighting, no discussions, no nothing.

Sometimes, when he’s talking about this issue or another, he can see Grantaire from the corner of his eye, making grimaces, or mumbling comments to himself, but never speaking up.

It makes Enjolras want to punch him.

The others have noticed it, too, the strange shift in the group’s dynamics, but no one seems to be able to put a finger on it. It’s just like the world has turned slightly off.

And he can’t talk about this with Combeferre, because the man will peer at him over his glasses, and ask a few pointed questions, and try to analyze Enjolras like  _he has no right to do_ , throwing psychology into the whole mess.

And Courf is of no help at all, because he has done this kind of thing a thousand times, with friends and strangers, and fails to see the problem, the reason for awkwardness.

Everything is so easy for Courfeyrac.

Sometimes Enjolras wishes he was more like him.

Mostly, he just occupies himself with meetings and protests and tries not to think about too much (he fails). There is always some cause to be helped, and he can’t waste all of his time waiting for Grantaire to… do something.

Anything.

*****

Grantaire wonders if he should just stop coming to the café. The sight of Enjolras, fiery and committed, when he’s talking about the newest rally he’s attended or the one just being organized, hurts him.

Because Enjolras, it would seem, has moved on completely from that stupid Friday night, working even twice as hard, his feet barely touching the ground, while Grantaire is still stuck, replaying it over and over in his head.

He knew it was going to be like this - foolish, lovesick Grantaire, pining, making things up in his head, turning a drunk fuck into something more than it was, and aching, dreaming it’ll happen again.

He still continues coming to Le Musain, spiting himself, hating himself, and unable to look away when Enjolras barges in, spitting out disbelief at the latest injustice the world has produced.

*****

Montparnasse turns up again almost a whole week later, with a single red rose.

Eponine is just watching a particularly bad romcom - she loves those, the stories are unapologetically cheesy and the actors are always hot - when there is a knock on her window pane.

There is someone crouching on the fire escape.

She has a brief moment of panic, before recognizing the jacket.

“You’ve got to be kidding me”, she mutters, and opens the window.

One long leg carefully steps in her apartment, followed by another, and then a whole, lean, leather-clad body.

Montparnasse grins at her, and sticks the rose right up in her face, until she is forced to take it just to stop him from stuffing it straight in her nostrils.

“Thanks”, she says. And then, because she can’t help it, “you’re crazy, you know.”

“So they say”, he returns easily, looking around the living room.

On the screen, the lead actor is doing the whole ending speech about never ending love and mistakes he made in the past and he knows that the lead actress is The One and then he kneels and-

Montparnasse snorts and turns off the TV.

“Hey”, protests Eponine, but without heart, “I was watching that, you know.”

He lifts an eyebrow at her.

“Really?”, he says. “Romance kind of girl, are you?”

She shrugs.

_There is a stranger in my living room_ , she thinks.  _And I don’t mind at all._

“So”, he says.

“So”, she returns, and lifts her chin ever so slightly.

Five minutes later, they stumble together to her bedroom, knocking over a chair in their way.

*****

First dates are the worst.

Marius’s palms are sweating. His feet are sweating. His whole body is sweating. He wonders if half a can of deodorant can mask the smell.

_No point in wondering_ , he thinks as he practically showers in Old Spice.

He runs his slightly sticky fingers through his gelled up hair, and  _oh God_ , this is going to be a disaster.

He stares at himself very, very hard in the bathroom mirror.

“You can do this”, he says, feeling stupid, but still oddly comforted.

He hurries out the door.

Cosette is wearing her favourite dress and staring out the window of the small coffee shop, trying to spot Marius. She showed up a bit too early, and she’s drunk almost half of her tea, and is becoming more and more conscious of the pressure in her bladder, but she can’t get up now, because supposing he came in just when she was in the toilet, and assumed she ditched him and turned and walked away?

_I’m not thirteen years old anymore, why am I being so ridiculous?_

It probably has something to do with the way Marius smiled at her, all lopsided and wide, looking grateful for the fact she was even talking to him.

_Shut up._

The café door opens.

Marius grins sheepishly.

“Hi.”

*****

Not everything is easy for Courfeyrac.

Sex, okay, sex is pretty easy. It helps he’s charismatic, and messy haired and well dressed and gets what people want and knows how to give it to them, exactly the kind of person for a good one night stand.

Meeting people and having fun with them is easy. Making them stay is quite a different thing. Usually, he doesn’t want them to, so it’s alright.

But there is nothing usual about Jehan, with his ink smudged fingers and his leather bound notebook, filled with pressed flowers and poetry. Jehan, with his small, serene face, and freckles on his nose, and blonde reddish hair that sticks up at all ends and is long enough to be tied with a ribbon - because of course he uses ribbons - Jehan, who is as quiet and shy as much as Courfeyrac is loud and friendly, and there is something good about that, Courf thinks.

And with him, Courfeyrac can’t use his stupid, intentionally cheesy pick up lines, or pay for his drink and wink, or leave in the morning after a lukewarm coffee and obligatory pleasantries.

Because this is Jehan, who blushes so very prettily every time Courf slings an easy arm around his shoulder, but is also capable of some of the world’s sneakiest, greatest innuendos, after which his face twists into a smile that’s both proud  _and_ embarrassed at the same time. It looks like someone scrunched up a kitten.

And Courfeyrac’s been feeling like a clumsy, big oaf for almost three months now, and he doesn’t know what to do, or who to tell, and if that would even help anything.

Combeferre knows, because Combeferre knows everything, but has offered no real help except the occasional listening ear and a non-committal ‘hmmmph’. Combeferre tries not to get himself too involved in other people’s stuff.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone gets together for a birthday party, and charades are so much better when you play them drunk.

It’s Courfeyrac’s 21st birthday.

It is, as he put it, A Big Deal.

Nobody exactly knows why, but they guess it’s the first birthday he is celebrating in his own flat, and not in a crappy dorm room, even if he shares the said flat with two other people, both of whom prove to be very disinterested in the whole thing.

Enjolras says he’ll have nothing to do with the cleaning-up after, thank you very much, and disappears to another one of his meetings.

Combeferre shrugs, and says ‘hey, it’s your birthday’ and returns his eyes to his book.

Courfeyrac is going to make the best party ever.

*****

It’s shortly after 9pm when everyone starts arriving, shouting and laughing and all but throwing their presents at Courf, who accepts them all with ease and grace of a natural host. Eponine is the first to arrive, and the sight of her in a sparkly top and black skinny jeans makes Combeferre turn a slight shade of pink. She misses it completely, throwing her dark hair over one shoulder and announcing she’ll be tonight’s DJ.

Enjolras is still in his room when Grantaire arrives, looking the same as always, if not a little more  nervous, smelling of cigarette smoke, but surprisingly not alcohol.

Joly, Feuilly, Bahorel, and Bossuet all arrive together, and fill the kitchen with roars of laughter.

Marius and Cosette are spectacularly late by 45 minutes, both apologizing profusely the second Courf opens the door. They are dating now, for almost a month, and it’s the first time he has brought her over to meet his friends, and if she’s nervous, she doesn’t show it, hugging Courfeyrac and shaking his hand with a surprisingly strong grip.

The door of Enjolras’ room open and close a few times, but he doesn’t come out. Nobody guesses it probably has something to do with a sullen looking Grantaire, lounging in the living room and casting worried glances down the hallway.

Jehan is the last to arrive, his hair tied up with a pink ribbon tonight, and his freckles even more obvious on the pale skin.

“Sorry”, he mutters as Courfeyrac opens the door. “Got lost, again. Every building around here looks the same, honestly!”

His nose is very, very red, and there are snowflakes on his eyelashes.

Courfeyrac feels as if he might melt.

“It’s okay”, he says, ushering Jehan inside. “You didn’t miss anything, the  _real_  fun is just about to begin. I’m doing my famous party trick.”

Jehan groans.

“No. Not the party trick.”

“Yes,  _yes_ , the party trick”, Courf assures him, a manic gleam to his eye.

“And you, my dear Prouvaire, are getting the front seats.”

*****

Courfeyrac is doing his party trick, and Grantaire has seen enough of that to last him a lifetime.

So while everyone is in the living room cheering the birthday boy on, he’s looking for a quiet place to sit down for a while. And Enjolras. He is also looking for Enjolras, who hasn’t come out of his room at all, except to take a paper cup of cheap wine and reluctantly join in a truly embarrassing rendition of “Happy Birthday To You”.

There is enough alcohol in his system to think it’s a really good idea, coming into Enjolras’ room without even knocking, so he does.

Enjolras is writing furiously on his laptop, probably one of his letters to the college newspaper, which all started with “I am shocked and appalled” and yet didn’t make him sound like an 80 year old grandpa.

You had to admire someone like that.

Grantaire shuts the door behind him quietly.

Enjolras’ back stiffens, ever so slightly.

“Have you been drinking?”, he asks, and since Grantaire sees no point in lying, he nods.

“Why are you not on Courf’s birthday party?”, he says in return, with inebriated straightforwardness. “It’s quite a good one, if I might say so myself.”

“I have work to do”, Enjolras says tightly, still not turning to look at him.

“Oh, well, that’s a shame”, Grantaire says softly.

After a moment, he adds: “And why won’t you look at me?”

There is a long silence.

Enjolras turns, fixing his blue eyes on Grantaire, who suddenly feels very weak in the knees.

“What do you want me to say?”

“Anything”, blurts out Grantaire. “Anything but this. Look, Enjolras, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I fucked everything up, I was stupid and drunk, and I’m so,  _so sorry-_ ”

“Don’t you dare apologize”, says Enjolras, abruptly standing up and crossing the room in two quick steps.

“That’s not a good idea”, Grantaire starts to warn him, but is cut off when Enjolras kisses him fiercely on the mouth, his hand cupping Grantaire’s face. Grantaire’s back slams against the door.

He can hear people’s muffled cheering from the living room.

He tangles his right hand fingers in Enjolras’ hair, and cradles his neck with his left, pulling him closer until they are pressed against each other with the whole lengths of their bodies, and when he slides his tongue into Enjolras’ mouth, it makes him let out a small sigh.

Grantaire decides he rather likes it.

*****

There is a loud noise as the champagne bottle pops open, and everyone cheers. Jehan has his hands firmly pressed to his face, because he is sure, now more than ever, that he is as red as a tomato.

Courfeyrac flops down on the couch next to him, his face slightly flushed.

“Never gets old!”, he exclaims and then notices the lack of Jehan’s face in his immediate proximity.  “Hey, what’s - you didn’t  _actually_  miss my party trick on purpose - did you watch  _any_  of it? Be honest, you tart.”

“The beginning”, Jehan admits. “It got… too exciting. Did you just call me a tart?”

“Yes, but the delicious kind. A strawberry one”, says Courfeyrac with a grin, and slowly removes Jehan’s hands from his face, carefully interlacing their fingers.

Jehan’s face is now actually on fire.

“So, I wanted to ask you something-“

There is a crack as Combeferre drops a bowl full of popcorn after Eponine leans over to pour him a cup of beer, and Courfeyrac curses under his breath and jumps up to deal with it because he’s the fucking host and Enjolras will kill him if anything is actually damaged.

Where is Enjolras, by the way?

*****

Enjolras is still in his room, in his bed, if you want to be really specific.

*****

“We’re not in high school, you don’t have to worry we’ll break your mum’s favourite plate”, tells him Eponine cheerfully, picking up popcorn from the floor. Next to her, Combeferre looks very embarrassed and is staring fixedly past Eponine’s cleavage, which, tonight, looks a little hard to miss.

Courfeyrac decides that later, the two of them will have Words. Now he just gives him an ‘I’m on to you, mister’ kind of look, and turns, only to smash face first in Bahorel’s chest.

“We’re playing charades”, Bahorel tells him with a smile.

Behind him, Joly shouts: “And Bahorel keeps cheating!”, but quiets when he turns to glare at him.

Soon everyone is tipsily playing along, shouting and swearing and generally having a pretty great time.

Marius is, as expected, crap at it, but Cosette balances him out really well, proving to be extremely focused even after three raspberry vodkas, and just maybe a little wobbly on her feet.  Joly flaps his arms around and Bahorel makes a show of it, without actually trying to explain anything very well, and Bossuet tries really hard to pantomime ‘The Unbearable Lightness of Being” before getting booed away when Combeferre actually gets it.

Courfeyrac steals glances at Jehan, who gets into the game with unexpected amount of passion, and gets really frustrated when the opposing team doesn’t get the name of one of Neruda’s collection of poems.

Eponine all but spells out the words ‘the lion, the witch and the wardrobe’, getting really red in the face, before Feuilly finally guesses it, and she shouts “for fuck’s sake, yes” and flops down on the floor angrily, while Combeferre looks at her with poorly disguised wonder in his eyes.

Then someone introduces the concept of taking a drink every time you’re up, and after that, everything gets a little hazy, and no one’s really sure which team they are in, but hey, it’s all good fun, anyway.

*****

An hour later, or maybe even two (who’s counting?), everyone scatters off again, and Courfeyrac finds himself alone on the couch with Jehan, who has apparently realized the same thing and is now carefully inspecting his feet.

 ”Well”, he states.  _It’s now or never, you poor bastard. Nut up or shut up._

“Here we are. Again.”

“Yes”, agrees Jehan. There are moments where really nothing else can be said.

Courfeyrac feels like he is drowning. Possibly in the nose freckles. He should say something, he thinks feverishly, something cute or suave or  _anything,_ and not just blink and stare like a fish.

“I… like your ribbon”, he says drily.

Jehan’s face twists about, spouting at least twenty different expression.

“Thank… you?”, he says weakly.

Then there is another crash somewhere from the hallway, and  _oh my god these people,_ and Courfeyrac looks back at Jehan who is trying not to laugh.

“I’ll be back”, he says earnestly, mentally punching himself for sounding like the Terminator, and hurries off to hiss-scream at everyone to be on their best behaviour for at least 15 fucking minutes.

Eponine snorts and laughs in his general direction, trying hard to keep a very drunk Bahorel standing upright. There are strange noises coming from Enjolras’ room. In Combeferre’s room, Feully is trying to teach Bossuet the polish national anthem, and Joly is passed out cold on the floor. He can hear Marius and Cosette giggling from behind the closed door of his own bedroom.  _My bedroom!_  he thinks, a bit annoyed.

“You’re all pissing drunk”, he says in disbelief.

*****

It takes him half an hour to drag them all to their beds and sleeping bags, with Combeferre helping along, but also stumbling every now and again.

And when they’re done making  _grown up people_  go and get some sleep, it’s half five in the morning and Courfeyrac is so horribly tired. He drags himself back to the living room, only to see Jehan already asleep on the couch, curled up on his side. He hovers awkwardly above him for a moment, not sure what to do, when Jehan murmurs: “Come over here, you idiot”, and pulls him down with unexpected strength.

There is a brief moment of adjusting limbs, and elbows and knees finding their places, and then they are laying next to each other, closer than they ever were before.

Courfeyrac forgets how to breathe, for a second.

Jehan smells like flowers and his breathing is quiet and hitched, very close to Courf’s ear.

“So”, he whispers, feeling he might as well give it another shot, “what I wanted to-“

A hand shoots up to cover his mouth.

“Shhh”, says Jehan. “Not now. Sleeping.”

And that’s it.

Courfeyrac promptly shuts up.

But before he shuts his eyes, he lays just one, light kiss on Jehan’s nose.

And Jehan tries very hard not to smile.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Eponine gets interrogated, Combeferre gets upset (not that anybody realizes, though), and Grantaire would be really happy if he wasn’t a skeptic to the bone.

Here’s a thing about Enjolras: he doesn’t try to fix people. He is too busy fixing the world.

So when Grantaire drinks so much he forgets his own address or asks him if he can crash for a couple of days because his landlord kicked him out, again, like he did just a few hours ago, Enjolras doesn’t say anything, like everyone else does (like Grantaire doesn’t know how big of a fuck-up he is already, he doesn’t need all of his friends pointing it out), he just lets him in and shows him to the couch.

Though they always end up in his bed these days, somehow.

He watches the slow movement of Enjolras’ chest in the dark, as the other man breathes slowly, fast asleep. In the last two weeks following Courfeyrac birthday, they have had sex every day, embarrassingly unable to stop themselves.

It takes them very little to abandon all self-restraint: Grantaire would just be watching Enjolras deliver one of his more fervent speeches, until suddenly he’d get quite dizzy and distracted until he could drag him in the café bathroom and suck on that spot on his neck that made the taller man gasp.

Or Grantaire’d be innocently studying for his Classics exam, and Enjolras would slip two fingers in the waistband of his jeans, and murmur to him, his voice low and his breath hot in Grantaire’s ear, until it would become really hard to concentrate, and the afternoon would be spent in entirely unproductive ways.

If Grantaire wasn’t a cynic to the core, he would feel positively hysterical with happiness.

Instead, he wonders how long it will last before they break it off.

Before Grantaire inevitably fucks something up.

Before it just gets too much, and Enjolras realizes how horribly dependent on him Grantaire really is, and finishes it.

After a moment’s thought, he snuggles up closer to the sleeping Apollo (a secret nickname he never dares to use, because Enjolras would probably push him off the bed), because he’s determined to make the best of it, before it’s over.

*****

There is a loud discussion going on this afternoon in Le Musain, with everyone’s attention directed at Eponine, who is drinking her coffee with uncharacteristic smugness in her expression.

Only three people are missing from it being the full gang, even though nobody refers to them as a ‘gang’ and probably never will, because Enjolras would probably stare them down so furiously it would make them pee a little; Enjolras, who is, incidentally, not there, along with Grantaire, gone who knows where, the two of them always strangely absent these days; and Combeferre, stuck in his three-hour Philosophy lecture.

“So, you’re not going to tell us who he is?”, Bahorel presses on, an evil smile on his face.

Eponine shakes her head stubbornly, and takes another sip of the coffee just to hide her grin behind the mug.

“Are you blushing? You are! I can’t believe I’m seeing this!”, Bossuet shouts.

“He must be very special indeed”, says Courfeyrac, trying very hard to pay attention to the conversation, which is proving to be rather difficult, with Jehan’s thumb lazily circling the inside of his wrist.

Apparently, Bossuet and Bahorel were passing by Eponine’s building last night, only to see two figures on the street corner, making out like teenagers, one of them unmistakably identified as their brunette friend by the ragged green army coat she always wore.

The other figure was, as they put it, ‘tall, lean and all in black’.

“And very enthusiastic”, adds Bahorel with a smirk.

“ _Why_  won’t you tell us who he is?”, whines Joly.

“Who who is?”, asks Combeferre, who’s walked in Le Musain just a moment ago, shaking snowflakes out of his hair.

“Eponine has got a boyfriend!”, declares Bahorel triumphantly, clearly enjoying the way her face twists with embarrassment. Combeferre’s hands freeze halfway in taking off his scarf.

“He’s not my boyfriend!”, she shouts back, a smile on her face.

“Is man-slave more appropriate, then?”

“…oh. Well”, says Combeferre, still motionless. “I guess congratulations are in order, right?”

“But she refuses to tell us who he is!”, Bossuet says, pouting.

“He’s  _not_  my boyfriend”, repeats Eponine. “We just… hang.”

“And when you ‘hang’…”

“I’m going to get something to drink”, says Combeferre suddenly, and disappears.

“…that is none of your business”, Eponine replies hotly, slamming her mug on the table a little too forcefully.

Bahorel raises both of his arms in the air, a universal sign for surrender.

“I just wanted to know who this guy is… and if he’s good enough for you”, he says, looking a little sheepish.

“Compliments won’t get you anywhere”, she says coldly, but her eyes soften a bit around the edges.

“Compliments get me  _everywhere_ ”, he returns, grinning wide.

Next to them, Joly is holding another one of his ‘cigarettes give you cancer’ speeches to Feuilly, who is listening with polite disinterest, and Cosette is trying to convince Jehan to submit a couple of his poems to her newspaper, with Marius and Corfeyrac both watching at them with horribly infatuated looks on their faces.

And Eponine feels happy to have friends who are worried and nosy and annoying at times, because it just means they care.

*****

Combeferre is quiet the rest of the day, but that’s not unusual for Combeferre. Nobody notices the strange gloom in his behaviour, apart from Enjolras, who, when he finally shows up, his hair a mess and his shirt buttoned unevenly, asks under his breath if something’s wrong.

He is convinced enough by a short ‘no’, though, and doesn’t try to press the issue further.

Anyway, Enjolras  _is_  kind of preoccupied, what with the way he watches Grantaire’s mouth close around the rim of a bottle. He probably thinks he’s being very subtle. He isn’t.

Combeferre notices these things. And when he doesn’t notice, people just come and straight up tell him stuff. He doesn’t even ask them to. He’s just a good listener, that’s all.

Combeferre knows a lot about everyone, but no one knows, for example, that Combeferre has spent the last two months hopelessly, embarrassingly crushing on Eponine.

It feels horrible, like he’s too big for his own body, a stumbling, stuttering lump filled with straw that wanders vaguely about and goes ‘clonk’ when asked questions.

This must be what it’s like for Marius,  _his whole life_.

It’s started lightly enough; when she first showed up in Le Musain she was nothing more than Marius’ shadow, but a cute one at that, her brown eyes fiery and her laughter, though rare, incredibly contagious. The first time she talked to him, she’s been coming to Le Musain for weeks, ordering the same, boring chamomile tea every time. So when he suggested her to try the chai latte instead, she snorted and answered with a friendly smile: “I’m sorry, but I’m gonna leave the pretentious stuff to you. I just… really like chamomile.”

He remembers feeling offended by being called ‘pretentious’, even though every one of his friends had told him that at one point or another in his life. And that small comment made him pay her attention, and he started to notice her, the big and small things about her equally.

He noticed she over-sugared her tea, pouring spoonful after spoonful serenely in the steaming liquid, obviously not caring about things as diabetes or teeth cavities or her figure.

He noticed the deep black bags under her eyes on most mornings, poorly disguised with make-up.

He noticed her habit of dog-earing the pages of her textbooks, even though it made him cringe.

He noticed most of her clothes were patched up at places, or carefully sewn up, and the fabric faded with age.

And with what he noticed, and what he picked up from their conversations, he realized Eponine was kind of amazing, in her own right: she’d come home after a night shift and take a nap and wake up and study for her afternoon exam over a cup of coffee and a piece of toast, and then after the exam she’d go to her parent’s house, just to check if things were okay, if Gavroche did his homework, and maybe she’d do a little shopping for them while she was at it, and then she’d go to her little, shabby flat again and pull an all-nighter for some stupid essay or presentation she was due the next morning, and after that, a double shift at work, because she needed the money.

It was always like this for Eponine, all the time.

Nobody else seemed to notice this but Combeferre.

And she was far too proud to ever ask for any sort of help. He can’t help but admire that.

He just hopes that this stranger of hers knew how to appreciate her, too.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Enjolras and Grantaire are Not In a Relationship, Eponine and Montparnasse talk for the first time, and Marius gets to hear a story or two.

The flat is silent.

Courfeyrac has gone for a walk with Jehan, in search of poetry inspiration and first, early spring flowers, and Combeferre is in one of his lectures, undoubtedly discussing ancient Greek philosophers with a strange passion which seems to only turn up in his face when he’s talking about people who have been dead for thousands of years.

There is only the sound of their breathing.

Enjolras first learned how to love Grantaire in the dark, and now, he was learning how to love him in the light.

He drags his fingers idly over the pale skin of Grantaire’s back, noting how the afternoon sun made the other man’s eyes look even greener than usual.

Grantaire grins lazily at him, but without the usual cockiness. His eyelids are already half closed.

Enjolras wonders when they crossed this unspoken boundary between fuck buddies and turned into this complicated, indescribable… thing.

It’s not like they are in a relationship.

They’re not.

Enjolras doesn’t have time for those, and Grantaire despises them as a matter of principle.

That much is clear.

They are so,  _so_  not in a relationship.

Enjolras has no idea what the hell they are in, though.

And as Grantaire falls asleep before his very eyes, an act that is so scarily intimate Enjolras is too afraid to even start thinking about it, he realizes the only time Grantaire looks anything near peaceful is when he is sleeping, his eyes closed and his lips slightly parted, not quirked in the usual bitter, sarcastic smile. He looks so open and vulnerable it’s kind of, and Enjolras hesitates before allowing himself to phrase the thought,  _wonderful._

_*****_

The next morning, in the early light of dawn, Grantaire thinks how good it feels to wake up to the sound of Enjolras’ snoring.

It’s quite impressive, and at moments frightening, but once he’s used to it, it gets kind of endearing.

Like almost everything else about Enjolras, anyway.

*****

Eponine breathes out one long sigh, and stretches on her bed, feeling the night breeze float across her skin. Next to her, Montparnasse lights a cigarette, managing to look elegant in nothing more than a pair of briefs. He reminds her of a cat, wild, unpredictable, but quite sweet when he wants to be.

Which is, granted, rare.

But that’s okay, because she doesn’t want sweet. Other people are sweet.

Marius… is sweet. And kind, and friendly, and good. But Marius likes Cosette.

And this can be good, too. A different kind of good, maybe.

Montparnasse is hard and sharp against her, all firm lines and angles, and roughness that she likes because it’s his roughness that holds her up.

She returns his grin in the darkness, and he passes her the cigarette.

“You look hot when you smoke”, he murmurs against her skin, leaning in to press kisses against the line of her shoulder.

“Shut up”, she returns, and inhales, not missing his small, amused smile.

“So, um”, she says, trying to ignore the way his mouth’s worked its way up, and is lazily sucking at the spot her neck meets her jaw. She shivers with the sensation, but is determined to continue what she has in mind.

“You, er, studying anything here?”

The question sounds stupid in the dark room, and there are hints of laughter in his voice when he answers, a bit surprised.

“No”, he says, and dedicates himself thoroughly to investigating the curve of her collarbones, with his hand moving slowly up her thigh.

“So you, like -  _oh_  - are you working -  _mhmm_  - somewhere?”

 He pulls back suddenly.

“What is this?”, he asks, meeting her eyes suspiciously.

“I just thought-“, she starts, but Montparnasse brings a finger to her lips.

“Look”, he says, “what we have here, is really great. You’re the best lay I’ve had in years. Okay? And I don’t want to spoil it by talking about  _our feelings_ , or going over to meet your folks, or something like that. I thought we had it clear.”

“I don’t want that”, she protests, pushing his hand away.

 _And I would never bring someone over to meet my parents_ , she thinks.  _I could never be so cruel._

“I just wanted to know a little bit more about the guy I’ve been sleeping with the last three weeks, beside his first name.”

“It’s better if you didn’t”, he tells her, his expression suddenly soft.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”, she says, eyes narrowing.

“Exactly what I said. The lesser you know, the better.”

And Eponine isn’t stupid; her adolescence was at best a turbulent time, and she got mixed up with a lot of people who were playing with the law in one way or another. And she realizes this stranger, this attractive young man who’s been hanging around in her bedroom far too much as of late, with a curved sort of smile and clever hands, is dangerous.

But she likes the thrill she feels when he’s kissing her, the smell of leather and cigarette smoke that fills her room every time he comes around, and his strong hands on her, at times a bit too severe, but she’s okay with it, because sometimes she likes being man handled, and having someone to push her around, so she can push right back.

It’s indulging in her deepest, self-destructive tendencies, dating people who are bad for her in order not to get attached, never wanting to depend on anyone for anything, because people always leave.

And she doesn’t want to be broken, time and time again.

But when Montparnasse grins at her, sliding an arm around her waist to pull her closer, she lets go of it, at least for now.

*****

When Cosette decides to tell Marius about her childhood, they’re both on his bed, with him studying and her editing her photos for the next month’s issue.

“Everyone quoted in this book sounds like my grandfather” , he snorts, flicking the pages a bit too strongly. It’s one of the rare times she hears the harshness in his voice, so she pays attention.

“Not fond of him, are you?” , she asks lightly, carefully picking her words.

“Not at the moment, no”, is all he says in return, and his tone is stiff and dismissing.

“We can’t choose our families” , she says, because it’s the only thing that comes to her mind.

“I think you got lucky”, he tells her, nudging her side with his foot gently.  “I wish Valjean was my dad.”

 _I guess it’s now or never_ , she thinks, and says, trying to keep her voice as casual as possible: “Actually, Valjean is my adoptive father. I never knew my real dad.”

It’s not a hard thing to talk about, not really, because Jean is good and kind and probably was a better dad to her in these 10 years than her real father could ever have been, but it always leads to more questions, which lead to the stories from the orphanage and foster-care, and those are the hard ones.

“Oh”, says Marius, clearly startled.

She takes a deep breath, and starts talking.

And what she likes about Marius is that he doesn’t interrupt her; doesn’t try to comfort her; doesn’t pull the whole Macho Man act like both of her ex-boyfriends did, embracing her in order for her to stop talking, murmuring stupid things like ‘there, there’ or ‘it’s all over now, don’t think about it’; he just listens.

He listens, and when she finishes and looks at him, waiting for a reaction, he reaches and unknots her fists slowly - she didn’t even realize how hard she’s been clenching them. He takes her right hand in his and kisses each one of her fingers tenderly.

“You pulled through it”, he says simply, meeting her eyes. “And it probably took a lot of courage, every day. And I’ve just realized you’re a lot stronger than I could possibly ever dream of being. That’s a little intimidating, actually.”

His eyes are warm hazel, and the whole room is bright with spring sun, and Cosette can’t help but kiss him, knocking the textbook out of his hands firmly.

When she pushes him down, he sinks into the mattress with an embarrassing little noise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marius and Cosette give off all these Shoebox Project James and Lily vibes, sorry I'm not even sorry.  
> And yes, Enjolras snores, sometimes so loud he even wakes Combeferre. It can really get kind of scary.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Eponine starts her day on the wrong foot, bros talk about bro things, and somebody leaves.

Eponine fucking over-slept. Again.

She opens one crusty eye to glare at the small alarm clock perched on her night stand.

It’s 9.30. Her class started exactly half an hour ago.

It’s the third time in two weeks, and she is seriously pissed now.

She lets herself string a long chain of curse words, which doesn’t make her feel better, much.

_This is such a bad way to start your day_ , she thinks grumpily as she throws her covers on the floor.

Fucking double shifts and fucking late night buses and fucking early morning classes. From time to time, she thought about dropping her job in favor of some sleep and maybe an evening spent in, but she needs the fucking money. She can’t depend on her parents for it, for more than one reason.

Her phone lights up with a text.

_Where are you?_

She smiles weakly.

Combeferre and her have a routine every Tuesday morning, after the only class they have together (Women’s Studies). It consists mostly of getting a big, fat, greasy breakfast together in a sleazy, probably horribly unhygienic bistro just around the corner from her flat.

He was easy company: the silences were never uncomfortable, and there weren’t that many of them, at any rate. They would chat about music, mostly, that being their most common interest. He’d try to get her to listen to some new indie artist every week, so underground he was probably one of the five persons who actually knew about them, and she’d stubbornly insist there was nothing better than some old school, mainstream rock n’ roll, that shook your bones right to their core. Combeferre would reply he has never ‘shaken a bone in his life, thank you very much, and anyway, how can you not admire the harmonies accompanying this banjo solo?’.

She sends him a quick answer.

_overslept. don’t say anything._

_guess we’ll skip the ham-and-eggs today, sorry_

She barely has time to turn around when his reply comes.

_Will be bringing you notes from the class as soon as it finishes,_

_don’t go anywhere_

She lets herself full-on grin this time. You can always rely on good old ‘Ferre.

She’s just getting out of the shower when there was a buzz from the door, and a red nosed Combeferre sighs a breath of relief when she answers.

“It’s freezing outside”, he mumbles, and lifts up a paper bag. “Also, I brought muffins.”

“I could kiss you right now”, Eponine says, grabbing the bag and pulling him inside.

She busies herself with making them coffee as he pulls out various different sized notebooks from his messenger bag. His glasses are steamed over, and he sniffles occasionally, his nose now just a strong shade of pink. It amuses her to watch him, this somber young man, his hair sticking out at all ends, as he fumbles with heavy textbooks.

He can be pretty adorable when he isn’t paying attention.

“So”, she says, putting two steaming cups of coffee on the table and sitting down next to him, “what did I miss today?”

He pushes his glasses up the length of his nose self consciously, and leans over to show her what parts of chapter 11 to highlight. She catches the faint smell of his perfume, fresh and elegant, and smiles.

Maybe today will be a nice day, after all.

*****

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow?”, says Courfeyrac at the doorstep hopefully.

“Enjolras has discovered a Starbucks just a few blocks away from our flat, and he’s planning to go over  there and harass the baristas with speeches about fair-trade coffee and global corporations making money over the backs of hard working people, and try to convince them to quit and find a job in a company with better policies. He’ll probably get another restraining order. Combeferre is trying to talk him out of it, but he just won’t listen”, he says with a sigh, but barely suppresses the amusement underneath it.

Jehan scratches his nose thoughtfully.

“Unfortunately, I have English Lit tomorrow, so I probably won’t be able to make it and watch all of you idiots get spectacularly thrown out from yet another coffee shop”, he says, a bit mournfully.

“Oh, well, that’s too bad”, says Courfeyrac after a moment. “I’ll, um, see you around, then, yeah? Um…”

There is a pause.

They look at their feet.

They look at each other.

They quickly look away.

“Bye”, says Courfeyrac, and flees.

Jehan shuts the door, a bit more forcefully than he originally wanted.

“Still no news on that front, huh?”, asks Joly from behind his laptop.

“Stop googling tuberculosis symptoms, I told you it’s just our shitty heating”, answers Jehan irritably.

“My feet are soaked in cold sweat, I’m just saying, that’s one of the clearest symptoms  _ever_ ”, murmurs Joly stubbornly to his back.

“That’s gross. Take a shower, please”, says Jehan, pouring himself a glass of water and trying very hard not to be angry with Courfeyrac.

They aren’t exactly dating.

They have come to a mutual Understanding, which is all very well and nice, but sometimes Jehan just wants to take Courf’s face in his hands and kisses him to oblivion, and they don’t… it’s just something that hasn’t happened yet.

And it’s making Jehan so horribly frustrated.

Because, yes, maybe he reads poetry and wears tiny braids in his hair and maybe he really likes flowers, but he wishes Courfeyrac would actually  _stop treating him like one_  and just fucking kiss him already.

“And would you please stop leaving your text documents open all over my desktop”, Joly says, exasperated. “I can’t help but read them then, and they’ve been so weird these last few weeks.”

Jehan turns red, then purple, then very, very white.

“Those are private!”, he shouts.

“I thought it was just poetry!”, Joly protests, shrinking in his chair. “I thought it was your poetry, you always let me read those! And don’t yell at me with your deep voice, it’s kind of really scary!”

“How much did you read?”, Jehan demands, wishing he wasn’t so damn forgetful all the time and remembering to close his fucking Microsoft Word.

“…all… of them…?”, says Joly after a moment, and closes his eyes, ready for death.

It doesn’t come, but only because Jehan is too embarrassed to remember to kill him.

“Oh my God”, he says, sinking onto the floor.

“There, there”, says Joly awkwardly, trying to process the sudden shift in Jehan’s mood.

There is a loud knock on the door, and Bahorel barges in, with Feuilly and Bossuet close at his heels.

“Someone left their door unlocked!”, booms Bahorel with the kind of rowdy cheer only he can bring into the room. “You know that’s potentially dangerous behaviour, I mean, anyone could have just come right in! If you aren’t careful, evil men will come and steal you noodly armed princesses and asks us for ransom, and since we’re broke, you’ll probably stay kidnapped forever - hello, what happened here?”

Everyone regards Jehan, who is still on the floor, his face in his hands.

“Jehan has boy troubles”, Joly says, seeing no point in keeping things away from Bahorel, who usually gets the truth one way or another.

There’s a groan from the floor.

Everyone nods sympathetically.

“Ah, it happens to the best of them”, says Bahorel consolingly, flopping down on the shabby sofa and stretching his legs. “What is it, then? I am ready to go and break legs for you, you need only ask.”

“I think you’re going a little bit to the extreme there”, Feuilly warns him, carefully shutting the apartment door.

“What are you people doing here, anyway?”, asks Joly, suspiciously eyeing them.

“Not much”, says Bossuet openly. “I made like, 50 chocolate chip cookies, so we decided to come over before we eat them all ourselves and inevitably die from too much chocolate goodness. Want one?”

He opens a plastic container and offers it to Jehan, who shakes his head sullenly.

“So, what’s the deal?”, Bahorel insists, not a man to let good gossip pass him by.

“I’ll never tell”, says Jehan, mustering all the dignity he has left.

“It’s Courfeyrac”, Joly whispers to Bahorel, so loudly it almost echoes around the room. “They still haven’t kissed.”

“Joly!”, Jehan screams out, making Feuilly drop his cigarette.

“I’m sorry!”, his roommate whines. “I think they’ll probably help more than I can!”

“I don’t need help”, Jehan returns darkly. “I just need to go into my room and never come out again.”

“Cheer up, man”, says Bossuet from the kitchen. “I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

“Please try to stay away from the knives”, says Jehan weakly. Bossuet, well intentioned, but sometimes too clumsy for his own good, was to be kept away from all sharp objects, and dangerous looking flights of stairs.

“So what are you going to do about it?”, says Feuilly suddenly from his corner of the room.

Jehan looks up at him, surprised.

“Do about what?”

Bahorel lets out an impatient grunt.

“About the kissing, you ninny! About the kissing!”

“What can I do, really?”, says Jehan, confused.

Everyone, save for Joly, groans.

“You can’t let it fester”, says Feuilly wisely from his Chair of Wisdom. “You’ve got to, you know, take the initiative.”

“Grow some balls”, says Bahorel.

“I can’t just walk up to him and-“

“Snog the living daylights out of him? Why not?”, asks Bahorel.

Jehan stutters.

“Well, because - because of - it’s just not - I can’t do it!”

The four men stare at him in silence.

“Don’t look at me like that!”

“You can’t just wait for him to make the first move”, says Feuilly. “It’ll never happen. He really wants to do this right, and he needs to know you really, truly like him. I’ve never seen him so uncertain about anything in his entire life, it’s kind of amazing.”

“How do you know all this stuff?”, asks Joly, his eyes wide.

Feuilly coughs, a little embarrassed.

“Courfeyrac’s face is an open book. It’s really hard to miss, if you know how to look.”

“You terrify me sometimes”, Bahorel tells him, before turning once again to Jehan.

“Assuming all of what Feuilly just said is true, and it sounds like it, you’ve got to make the first move, princess.”

“Don’t call me a princess”, Jehan mumbles, and gets to his feet.

“Fair enough”, Bahorel agrees. “But only if you promise you’re going to go over to Courf’s place right this moment and lay a good one on him for me.”

Jehan’s jaw sets.

“Alright”, he says, and grabs his coat.

All present watch him go.

“You know, I like the whole ‘agony uncle’ vibe we got going on today”, says Bahorel cheerfully after a minute. “You think we could call on Combeferre and tell him to get his head out of his little hipster ass already and ask Eponine out on a date next?”

*****

The apartment is empty in a way that’s making Courfeyrac a little bit sad at the moment.

Enjolras has hurried out of the door half an hour ago, the words BOOTY CALL stamped plainly across his forehead, after receiving some stupid text Courf  _knew_ was from Grantaire, but was graceful enough not to mention.

Combeferre is in the Ancient History museum with Eponine, as she made him promise to take her there some time ago, and he nodded so enthusiastically Courfeyrac thought his neck was going to snap.

He was graceful enough not to comment on that, too.

Courfeyrac is pretty understanding most of the time, all things considered.

He sighs sadly, running through the events of this afternoon in his mind, again.

He thought that after his birthday, everything would resolve itself.

He’d get up and kiss Jehan awake, and they would have coffee but  _not_  exchange polite conversation, instead just kissing and kissing and kissing until they’d both run out of breath and then Courf would take one of Jehan’s hands in his and press him against the counter and watch the way his small mouth twisted into one of those half smiles that drive Courfeyrac crazy and then they’d snog some more, until people starting actually waking up and wandering about the flat and commenting on their depravity, and Jehan would blush and Courfeyrac would look proud.

Except nothing like that  _actually_  happened the morning after his birthday.

What happened was that Courfeyrac woke up on an empty couch with a crick in his neck, and his feet cold, and with Eponine drinking tea and watching him from the kitchen counter, and she’d said that Jehan had to leave early because of his classes, and then she’d asked him why he looked so disappointed and then after a moment she added that he should probably go an brush his teeth (‘Jesus, it’s like the sewers of Paris or something’).

And the next time they saw each other, Courf was flustered and Jehan was quiet and nothing happened. And nothing continued to happen, and now, nothing is happening  _so much_ , it makes Courfeyrac want to scream. He wonders if universe will give him some kind of a sign, someone to tell him what to do.

There is a quiet knock on the door, and when he opens it, a red cheeked Jehan is staring at him, his eyes somewhat wild.

“Jehan?”, he says, surprised.

“Shut up”, Jehan says in return, his voice almost an octave lower than usual, and kisses him hard on the mouth, one hand fisting in Courfeyrac’s shirt.

Things get a little hazy, after that.

*****

It’s nothing new for Montparnasse to show up at Eponine’s door at various times of night, so when some soft, but persistent knocking wakes her up at 3am, she gets out of bed, and, a little annoyed, opens it.

“Hey, you’ve got to stop-“, she starts, but shuts up as she sees the look on his face, uncharacteristically serious.

“Can I come in?”, he says, and wow, something is  _definitely_  wrong.

She nods, and he walks quickly inside, looking around the living room suspiciously.

“Okay, what’s wrong?”, she says, locking the door and crossing her arms.

“I’ve got to disappear for a while”, he tells her, smiling bitterly. “Some people are looking for me. I just came to say goodbye, so.”

She leans against the door. In the last few months, they’ve been on and off, enjoying the fun, carefree sex, but sometimes without hearing from each other for weeks. It made her angry, at first - even fuck buddies had to text, at least to know if the other person is alive. Then she grown used to it, and learnt how to leave her window open late at night, and not worry about him at all.

Not care.

And lately, she’s been getting tired of these late hour, unexpected visits, which were almost romantic in the start; because these days, if she had an opportunity for a whole night’s sleep, she damn well took it. And even though the sex was still amazing, she found she ceased craving it like she did at the beginning, that roughness and passion that made her feel alive, and not think about certain things, or certain people.

Time heals all wounds, and she realized she didn’t need anyone to fix hers for her, anymore.   

“Alright.”

He looks at her.

“Just alright?”

“Well, what do you want me to say?”

He grins.

“You’re a strange one, babe. Always surprising, is what you are.”

“I do my best”, she says, watching him opening her window and climbing out on the fire escape, strangely mirroring that very first time he climbed in and offered her a rose he stole from the florist just around the corner (he later confessed).

“Aren’t you going to…?”, she motions to the door.

“Nah, it’s smarter this way”, Montparnasse says and then motions her to come closer. She does so, leaning on the window frame, quietly watching him, feeling like it might be a long time until she sees him again. One of his hands reaches out and tilts her face gently towards his.

“It’s been fun”, he says, and with one last, fierce kiss, leaves.

She isn’t all that upset, watching him go.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which two different conversations take place at two different parts of town.

Feuilly's studio (and the apartment's part-time living room) is, as usual, filled with the heavy smell of fresh paint and clouds of smoke. Grantaire is sitting on the floor, his eyes closed, listening to the Tom Waits playlist Feuilly always has playing in the background when he's working.

The painter sticks his fourth cigarette of the morning between his lips, and rolls up the sleeves of his dark blue button-up, studying the canvas in front of him critically.

"This is shit", he decides, and goes to open the window.

"It's good", Grantaire says, not opening his eyes.

He loves hanging out in Bossuet's, Bahorel's and Feuilly's apartment, a spacious, dusty suite which Bahorel affectionately calls their 'penthouse', even though they're a long way from jacuzzis and electric fireplaces. It does provide the most amazing view of the city, though.

If only they remembered to actually wash the windows every now and then.

"It's too - aurgh - red", says Feuilly, struggling with the jammed window frame.

"It's passionate, like all your works", replies Grantaire, wincing at the sound of glass and wood scraping against each other as Feuilly manages to unstuck the window.

He's nursing a hangover today; last night he and Bahorel went out to celebrate Bahorel's first paycheck on his new job. He doesn't remember much, only knows he woke up on their couch, with Feuilly opening his paint buckets determinedly, not ready to let his only day off go to waste.

Feuilly worked in an air-conditioner selling company as a handyman, and spent most of his week running around town and dealing with uptight customers, most of them near hysterical with the sudden inability to have their living rooms be exactly 24 degrees Celsius, and 45% humid, _thank you very much_.

He used the money to pay for night school art classes, and painted large, bold paintings in a style that merged expressionism and cubism.

"It's still too fucking red", Feuilly says, taking a long drag of his cigarette. "I over-used it. It's in all of my canvases, I can't help it. Sometimes I want to do one in just blues and greens, but I'm not sure if I could. I _think_ in red."

Grantaire opens his eyes, and cranes his neck to look.

"It's fine", he says dismissively. He fiddles idly with the small notebook in his hands. In the last few weeks, he had begun to draw again, little sketches here and there, whenever he felt the inspiration. It felt good, going back to an old passion he once abandoned in a flurry of self loathing and depression.

"Is that your sketchbook?", asks Feuilly, peering over the side of his canvas. "I thought you gave up on that."

"Yeah, well", Grantaire smiles. "I guess I just wanted to feel it again."

Feuilly nods understandingly, and turns his attention back to the painting.

Grantaire likes hanging out with Feuilly, the only other artist in his friends group, the only one who knows the feeling of being consumed by your art, staying up and pulling all nighters just so he could create, the taste of bitter, 4am coffee and nicotine on his fingers. And even though Grantaire had that year long crisis, unable to even draw a stickman without getting an anxiety attack over the utter uselessness of his career, they still shared the unspoken connection.

 

There are unmistakable signs of Bahorel waking up from the hallway, loud grunts and heavy footsteps. He passes through the living room on his way to the bathroom.

"You are Satan", is all he says, his face hidden beneath a mess of morning hair and scruffy beard, pointing one accusing finger in Grantaire's direction.

Grantaire meets Feuilly's curious eyes, and shrugs. He wishes he could remember anything about last night, but he doesn't. Weird noises come from the bathroom, more grunts and water being splashed about. When Bahorel emerges once again, his face and hair are wet and there is a long gash going all the way down his cheek.

"What the fuck", says Feuilly, the cigarette almost dropping from his lips.

"Yeah", Bahorel says. "Exactly. What the fuck."

Both of them watch him, shocked, as he stumbles in the kitchen and starts peeling an orange.

"What _happened_ last night?", asks Grantaire, a little scared.

"Well, I'm glad you're asking me that question, Grantaire, I'm really glad. Because I was just about to say it anyway. We got in to a bar fight."

Feuilly lowers his paintbrush.

"...we?", Grantaire says weakly. He feels fine, save from the headache; Bahorel, in the other hand, looks the worst he's ever seen him.

"Let me tell you the whole story, please, Feuilly, you'll want to hear this. We're sitting in this bar, lovely place, I should think, drinking a little, okay, maybe not little, and Grantaire, _unexpectedly_ , gets so sloshed he starts talking in this piercing kind of voice. About... stuff. Certain stuff."

Grantaire closes his eyes.

This isn't happening.

He's never drinking again.

But Bahorel continues, his words descending and bouncing off the walls of the suddenly quiet studio: "Certain blond angels he can't believe he has the privilege of fucking, and...", he turns his voice into a parody of Grantaire's own, making it high and flustered, "...'oh my god, I like him _so much_ , but he's in it just for the sex' and 'whyyyyy Enjolrasssss whyyyy is he doiiing this to meeee'. And before you know it, before I get to process the frankly _amazing_ things he's just told me, this dude from the next table, big strong kind of dude, one they'd keep in a circus lifting blushing maidens and probably bears a few centuries ago, also adequately inebriated, stumbles over and asks him if he could, you know, keep his voice down. You're being too loud, were the exact words. And this _idiot_ ", he looks at Grantaire with adoration, "just stares at him and says 'that's not what your mom said last night'."

"Needless to say, the dude all but jumps on him, and I take it upon myself to defend the fool's pretty face, seeing as apparently someone else likes looking at it very much."

He grins then, completely evil, and Grantaire knows he's never going to hear the end of this.

"Wow", is all Feuilly offers after a moment.

"So, maybe, I should've rephrased that and said, Grantaire got _me_ into a bar fight, which I heroically survived with only a cut cheek, while he'd probably walk home without his dick. And Enjolras wouldn't like that, would he?"

" _You're_ the Satan in this apartment", says Grantaire, his cheeks burning.

"I practically saved your life last night", Bahorel returns. "And how long have you been keeping this delicious tidbit of an information from us?"

"Just because you haven't had sex in three months, doesn't mean you can harass other people who have", says Feuilly quite suddenly from behind his canvas, and stares at Bahorel sharply.

Bahorel's shoulders slump a little.

His friendship with Feuilly was a curious thing to most; the loud, boisterous university drop-out with the somber artist; yet they bonded with each other fairly quickly and strongly, both coming from very poor backgrounds; Bahorel became the only one able to draw Feuilly into that gleeful, full-bodied kind of laughter, and Feuilly one of the rare voices of reason Bahorel actually listened to.

"You're right. Shit, why are you always right? Sorry, R. Still, that's the best piece of gossip I've heard in a long while. What's he like? Is he feisty? Is he _submissive_? Oh my God, this just opened a thousand questions I never knew I wanted the answer to, I-"

"Bahorel" says Feuilly, giving him a look.

"Who's feisty? Who's submissive?", says Bossuet, appearing quite suddenly in the living room, unlucky enough to miss the entire conversation.

" _No one!_ ", shouts everybody.

"Oh", says Bossuet, a bit confused. "Okay. Hey, who wants pancakes?"

 *****

They're all watching him.

Enjolras can feel their eyes piercing through the back of his skull, as he tries to keep his focus on the 10 page essay he's due in a week.

 He types a sentence.

They're still watching him.

"What?", he snaps, turning suddenly to face Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Joly and Jehan, who all sheepishly avert their eyes, choosing to stare at the walls, or the carpet.

"No, seriously, what is it? Would you _please_ just tell me, so I can go back to my work, and not actually spend the whole evening with your eyes drilling through my brain?"

"We're all just wondering-", starts Joly, but Jehan clasps a hand over his mouth.

"Excellent work, comrade Prouvaire", says Courfeyrac with tangible glee. "Joly, you might want to leave this to the diplomats."

"Hmmmhmph mmhp", says Joly in Jehan's hand reproachfully. It's probably something about the number of bacteria on an average person's palm, or maybe something questioning Courfeyrac's actual levels of diplomacy.

"What is happening?", asks Enjolras suspiciously.

Combeferre is giving him the 'I'm sorry' eyes, the eyes that happen whenever he's unable to stop Courfeyrac from doing what he has in mind.

"We've been thinking", starts Courfeyrac, clearly enjoying every bit of this, "about you, our fearless leader."

"And what, _exactly_ , have you been thinking about me?", says Enjolras coldly, every syllable ringing into place. He's mastered this kind of talk a long time ago, whenever he needed to show the person in the conversation he is _so_ not interested in what they have to say. Courfeyrac, however, isn't intimidated.

"How long have you been sleeping with Grantaire on a regular basis, and when did you plan on telling us?", he asks, without the slightest hint of shame.

Combeferre covers his face with his hands.

"I-what?", splutters Enjolras, his palms sweating. "This is ridiculous."

"No, you are ridiculous", says Jehan quite suddenly, removing his hand off Joly's face, who gasps for air.

"Did you think no one would notice? You sneak out in the bathroom every half an hour whenever we're in Le Musain. It's so obvious."

"I have to admit, it's kind of hard to ignore all of his late night - early morning comings and goings", says Combeferre, looking embarrassed to be having this conversation. "You slam the door of your room quite hard sometimes."

" _And_ I found his boxers on the floor of your bedroom yesterday!", adds Courfeyrac happily.

"What were you doing _in my room_?", hisses Enjolras.

"And _how_ do you know what Grantaire's boxers look like?", says Jehan, whipping his head to stare at the suddenly uncomfortable looking Courfeyrac.

"It's, uh... never mind", he mumbles. "Back to the subject in question!"

"Courf-", both Enjolras and Jehan start at the same time.

"I was looking for my bowtie, alright? Since you always steal it to look at yourself in the mirror-"

"I do not", says Enjolras, his face turning red under everyone's curious eyes.

"You _totally_ do, but we're not discussing that right now."

"What _are_ we discussing?", asks Joly.

"My sex life, apparently", says Enjolras, as haughtily as he can manage.

"Oh, don't you play that morality card with me, mister, we have every right to know!", shouts Courfeyrac.

"Not _every_ right", says Combeferre, but his eyes are glowing. "But I thought it was more of a one time thing, what gives?"

 _Et tu, Combeferre_ , thinks Enjolras.

"I don't have any obligation to answer your questions and satisfy your starving curiosity, so...", he says, thrown off balance by this whole quasi-intervention. Something wriggles in the back of his mind. He's never talked to anyone about anything that's been happening between him and Grantaire since that first morning. It felt good to have someone who was willing to listen.

"But-", starts Joly, only to shut up when Courfeyrac raises his hand.

"No", he says, looking solemn. "If Enjolras doesn't want to talk about it, we won't pressure him."

They all nod, and start getting up from the couch when Enjolras says: "Except..."

"Yes!", booms Courfeyrac.  "I knew it! I _knew_ you wanted to say something! Come on, spill the beans, let the cat out of the bag! What the _fuck_ has been going with you two?"

They all flop back down, their eyes eager.

"Well...", says Enjolras, a bit taken back, but still appreciating the enthusiasm. "We've been having sex... for almost five months now."

" _And?_ ", presses Courfeyrac, with a scary look on his face. One of Jehan's hands covers his own, and he looks over at the poet, who shakes his head subtly.

"And nothing", says Enjolras, confused. He has so much to say, he just finds he can't put it into words; Enjolras, who's been putting together speeches since he was six, now strangely voiceless.

Courf lets out an impatient huff.

"Well, how is it?", he blurts out, before Jehan tackles him.

Enjolras opens and closes his mouth a few times; there is a hysterical sort of laughter coming from somewhere underneath Jehan as Courfeyrac shouts "Oh my God, is he, like, really good in bed? Oh my God, he totally is! Have you been having the best sex of your life and didn't even bother to tell _me_?"

"This is not the kind of conversation I was hoping we would be having", Combeferre mutters, his cheeks even redder than Enjolras'.

"What kind of conversation were you hoping to have?", asks Enjolras, trying to drown out Courfeyrac's maniacal cackling.

"The kind where we ask you if you're planning to turn it into something more serious", answers Combeferre plainly, looking him in the eye.

The room turns silent.

Joly positively gapes.

Damn Combeferre, voicing Enjolras' own thoughts.

He's thought about it, more than once, in the past few months; whenever Grantaire had to wake up at the crack of dawn and hurry out of the apartment, because they agreed they'll keep it a secret; whenever they argued and Grantaire smiled at him, just so; whenever they fell asleep together, feet tangled under the bed sheets.

Maybe there was something there. Maybe they could work something out.

 

"Hey", Courf interrupts his train of thoughts, his voice muffled by the couch. "Not to put a stop to the movie-like montage that is undoubtedly playing in your brain right now, or whatever, but we're kind of waiting for an answer."

"I don't know", is all Enjolras says, quietly.

There is an awkward silence.

"Well!", says Combeferre suddenly, jumping up. "I see no point in discussing this further. Enjolras, do whatever makes you happy. Who are we to question it?"

"Yeah", agrees Courf. "YOLO."

"I can't believe you just said that out loud", Combeferre says.

"Except", Jehan pipes up, his grey eyes fixing Enjolras', "if you break that guy's heart, I will break _you_."

Courfeyrac lets out a small noise, his face still buried in the couch's cushions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tbh, I used this chapter to unapologetically gush about Feuilly, who has unexpectedly won my heart. And because I really wanted to write him and Grantaire together in Feuilly's smoky, dirty studio, being all artsy and shit. It all kind of spiraled from there. Feuillyyyyyyy is a babeeeee and there needs to be more of him in every ficcccccc


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a protest, and people get beaten up.  
> TW for violence.

It’s May and the trees on campus are filled with pink and purple blossoms, and bright green, young leaves. It’s kind of the way Marius feels on the inside, strutting his way to Le Musain, holding Cosette’s hand like she’s the most important thing on the world.

Everyone is in the cafe this Friday afternoon, chatting excitedly about the weekend.

Enjolras won’t shut up about the  _very important_ pro-gay marriage march they’ll be doing tomorrow morning, and Grantaire is watching him with an amused and fond expression over his cup of black coffee. Courfeyrac is stubbornly and enthusiastically pushing the idea of them all having matching t-shirts, which everyone is gracefully ignoring, and Jehan is scribbling furiously in his leather bound journal, and Eponine is laughing at Bahorel, who’s imitating Enjolras’ facial expressions behind his back, and even Combeferre manages a small smile, mixed with reprimand in his eyes.

When Marius and Cosette enter, nobody even blinks twice, instead of just making room for them in the booth.

They are, too, coming to the march, and when Cosette says they should make billboards, it makes the group explode, everyone starting to talk at the same time. Enjolras is sitting with an unusually dazed looking expression, and saying that  _of course_ , he should’ve thought of it before, and Combeferre is whipping out his phone and googling some statistics, because ‘those always look good on panels’, and Jehan actually starts writing some angry political haikus and Courfeyrac is still talking about group t-shirts, except now Marius is nodding along eagerly, with Feuilly and Bahorel doing their best to dissuade them of the idea.

*****

The protest starts out calm enough.

Enjolras has done dozens of these political walks round the town, for this cause or another. They’re usually good natured things, with cups of hot tea being passed around if the weather is particularly nasty, and maybe even slogans being made up on the spot, and lots of new acquaintances being made.

Once, or twice, the rally would be broken off by the police, but even they were friendly enough, and just waved their arms around like shooing off chickens, and talked in quiet voices to some of the people in charge who then announced ‘That’s it for today, people. Good work! Don’t forget the meetings are every Thursday at 8!’.

So when there’s an unusual amount of noise from the head of the crowd, Enjolras pushes his way through to the front, only to be faced with a large group of heavy looking, red faced men, holding things like lead pipes and baseball clubs, and yelling insults, their faces filled with hate.

The rest of the group trail close behind him, like they always do.

On sight of the armed men, Combeferre reaches out and carefully pushes Eponine behind him. On Enjolras’ other side, Marius does the same to Cosette.

“You have got to be kidding me”, mutters Corfeyrac under his breath.

No one in the convoy of almost 200 people has any weapons whatsoever. It was, after all, a peaceful protest. There is a silence as two groups weigh each other up.

Enjolras can hear Bahorel cracking his knuckles.

_How many of us even know how to fight?_

He certainly doesn’t.

Still, he clenches his fists, feeling his pulse quicken.

It happens fast.

One of the men in the front of the group nods.

Everyone else charges.

And Enjolras is fighting, actually fighting, swinging his fists and dodging people’s blows, and trying very hard to see what his friends are doing. He throws himself at the nearest man, and they go down in a flurry of kicks and screams. A bit undignified, but effective. He manages to hit him on the jaw, and yelps as the knuckles of his fist crunch unpleasantly. Luckily for him, the man is too busy being unconscious to take advantage of that. With the corner of his eye, he can see Combeferre getting knocked out by an incredibly large man who has too much similarities to a bull than could be deemed exactly natural.

With a shout, Jehan launches himself on the man’s back, and Courfeyrac uses that distraction to kick him in the stomach. They share a brilliant smile as the bull man falls over groaning.

Enjolras opens and closes his fists a few times, trying to shake out the pain, and dodges a lead pipe heading for the side of his head. He struggles for a moment with its owner, and manages to push hard enough to make him lose balance for a second. He grabs the pipe and aims at the man’s knees. There is an unpleasant sound of metal against bone. Enjolras would shiver, if he had the time.

On the street corner, a little way away from the fight, Cosette is dialing the police and arguing with whoever is in charge. Close to her stands Eponine, something wild in her eyes, holding a banner up in a way that suggests she would even hesitate before using it as a weapon.

Somewhere in the heart of the crowd, Feuilly and Bossuet are fighting side by side, before Bossuet (because of course he does) trips and goes down, earning a couple of kicks in the stomach and groin on the way.

Joly is trying to drag a bewildered looking Combeferre out of the crowd when two buffed up men decide that would be the best time to corner him with clubs. They only get to raise them before Bahorel knocks one of them out, almost lazily, and Eponine swings at the other with her banner, shouting furiously. Enjolras manages to knock two more people out, before he turns around to be faced with something that looks rather more like a troll than a human.

The man raises another lead pipe, and grins horribly.

“Come here, pretty boy”, he says and swings.

Out of nowhere appears Grantaire.

He throws himself at the man with a terrified scream, and both of them fall on the sidewalk, the pipe flying out of the man’s hand, which doesn’t do much to change the advantage. Grantaire immediately gets a blow to his ribs, and then another one to his stomach. The man’s right fist catches him on the jaw, and his head spins around in a way that would be comical if  this was a movie, but this is real life, and Grantaire is getting beaten up bloody in front of Enjolras and it is the most horrible thing he has ever seen.

His blood boils.

Without thinking, without looking, without really knowing what he is hoping to achieve, he swings the pipe in his hand down on the man’s head and there is a grunt, and the man’s hands clutching Grantaire loosen and fall down, limp. There is a quiet moment, and then Grantaire rolls over, away from the stranger’s unmoving body, and stays laying down, breathing slowly.

Enjolras drops the pipe.

It lands with a harsh sound; it echoes unpleasantly in his ears.

The fight around them has died out; most of the both parties have run off, except for those who were unable to do so due to their unconsciousness. Bahorel is picking up discarded weapons and laying them in a neat pile by the road. Cosette is still arguing with the person on the other side of the line, saying “Well, no, now there isn’t any need for you to come, is it, because it’s over, and everyone’s gone, but yes, thank you for this little heart to heart chat we had, that’s really going to help the situation. My name? Fuck you very much.”

She slams her phone shut, and looks at practically unrecognizable Marius, who is staring at her with awe. In his eagerness, he tried to take on three guys at once, and it took them a long time to wake him up.

“I lub it whenb you ged anbgry”, he tells her serenely.

“Are all your teeth still in place?”, she asks, kneeling down to inspect his swollen mouth.

Enjolras looks at Grantaire, who meets his eyes with a grin.

“Well, aren’t you going to help me up?”, he asks.

Enjolras offers him a hand, and then groans because when Grantaire accepts it, it hurts like hell.

His knuckles are swollen and purple, and he studies them interestedly. He’s never been in a fight before.

Next to him, Grantaire looks amazingly cheerful for someone with an incredibly painful looking bruise swelling under his left eye. They join the rest of the group, all standing around a bloodied Combeferre.

Eponine is carefully cleaning his face up with Cosette’s handkerchief.

“A broken nose”, informs them Joly, “and probably a minor concussion. They kicked him while he was down, the bastards.”

“I’ll be finbe”, says Combeferre, his eyes wonky.

“Shhh”, mutters Eponine to him. “Don’t talk.”

She turns to the rest.

“I’m gonna take him to the hospital. Anybody else feel like coming?”

Bossuet lifts his shirt to inspect a few ribs.

“Nothing broken”, he announces cheerfully, his lips cut open.

Enjolras turns to look at the man he hit in the head with a lead pipe. Was he…?

“He’ll be okay”, mumbles Grantaire to him softly.  “Heard him breathing. You knocked him out pretty good, though. No doubt he’ll be having a bad headache when he wakes up.”

The side of his face is now well swollen and grotesque looking, and Enjolras touches it tentatively.

Grantaire flinches back almost instantly, and catches his hand.

“Just need to put something cold on it”, he says. “It’s not my first time, you know.” 

He looks down at Enjolras’ hand in his, and carefully touches one of his knuckles. Enjolras winces, which, inexplicably, makes Grantaire smile.

“Come on, let’s go”, he says, starting down the street and pulling Enjolras with him. “Now is the time for celebrations! Victorious warriors having their triumphant drinks! The Gods of Valhalla are looking down on our fine company tonight! We have fought with the best of them!”

When they all stumble into Le Musain, a little dusty, a little bloody, but very cheerful, everything already feels a bit better.

*****

It  _is_  just a minor concussion, which doesn’t stop Eponine from slipping her arm around Combeferre’s waist protectively as they walk to his apartment. He is grateful for it, because every once in a while he stumbles and trips, but she is always there to catch him.

“Should’ve taken the taxi”, she mumbles after the third time his head spins and he leans heavily on her, making her grunt.

“Nob”, he insists firmly through the bandage on his nose. “Sombe fresh air will dob me good.”

“Where’d you read that, genius, on one of those sketchy medical sites Joly is always diagnosing himself off? He really should know better, he’s a fucking student of medicine.”

“Are you angbry widh me?”

She sighs.

“No, I’m not. A little bit upset, that’s all. Not with you. In general. You went down so fast, and there were so many people running around, I just…”, she pulls him closer to her until they’re pressed to each other, hip to hip.

“It’s good to know everyone’s alright”, she says, her lips set in a thin line.

“Yeb”, he agrees, looking over at her.

Eponine gives out nothing but fierceness in her expression, but he has learned by now to detect even the smallest emotion from her face, and today it’s all in her eyes - she is scared.

“Hey”, he says gently, nudging her with his shoulder, “it’s alrigbt. We’re all fineb. It’s allb over.”

“For now”, she mutters. “Oh, I almost forgot - your glasses.”

She pulls them out of her jacket pocket carefully.

“They flew away when that big guy broke your nose. They’re a bit banged up, but still.”

She stands on her tiptoes and puts them on Combeferre’s nose tentatively, and as he winces, she makes a sympathetic grimace in return.

“Better put something cold on that, remember what the doctor said”, she warns him.

“Want to come ub?”, he blurts out, because it’s been a long day and his head kind of still hurts, and his feet are wobbly at best, and he doesn’t want Eponine to remove that supporting arm from his waist.

“The flat’s probably empbty, and I kindb of… don’t want to be alone righbt now.”

She tilts her head, biting her lip thoughtfully before she answers.

“Yeah”, she says slowly. “Me neither.”

They watch Casablanca from the shabby sofa with their shoulders touching and eat ice cream straight from the bucket, their spoons knocking together, and when Rick Blaine stares at the side of the screen with a depressed look in his eyes and says ‘of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine’, Eponine stretches and lays a tender kiss right on the top of Combeferre’s nose.

He has never been so glad to get beaten up in his life.

*****

Grantaire simply refuses to leave that night, making up various, borderline ridiculous excuses, so they fall asleep together again, this time without the sex beforehand, both too sore and too tired to actually do anything. It feels intimate and relationship-y, but Enjolras says nothing, because he’s grown to like how Grantaire looks in the morning - wild haired and sleepy eyed, and warm against his side.

*****

Next day, the kitchen smells like bacon and eggs, and Grantaire is standing by the stove in just his boxers, humming some song tunelessly, and wincing every time a drop of boiling oil hits his skin.

When Enjolras takes a seat by the counter, still a bit slow from just waking up, he turns, spatula in hand, his smile positively wicked.

“There’s our mighty warrior”, he says cheerfully, splaying bits of bacon all over. “I’m afraid I’ve gone a little bit a la the Naked Chéf today, seeing as I couldn’t find my shirt in the horrible mess of clothes in your room. You should really clean that up, you know.”

Grantaire’s pale torso is covered in bruises, dark and ugly and painful. The one under his eye looks absolutely vicious. Enjolras resists the urge to comment.

“I made breakfast”, says Grantaire, gesticulating to the frying pan sizzling behind him.

“So I see”, replies Enjolras, still unable to stop looking. There is one enormous black and purple bruise stretching all across Grantaire’s lower back, and he can’t help but hiss at the sight.

“Don’t do that”, Grantaire warns him, raising the spatula threateningly. “I see you, making grimaces, thinking ‘oooh, poor Grantaire, it must hurt so bad’, and what not. Cut it out. It’ll heal.”

“You look horrible”, Enjolras says. He really can’t help himself.

He feels guilty, actually. If he hadn’t made everyone come to the march yesterday, Combeferre wouldn’t be suffering from a concussion, however mild it really was, Marius wouldn’t have a cracked tooth and a cut lip, Courfeyrac and Bossuet wouldn’t have had to get stitches, and Grantaire, stupid, loyal Grantaire wouldn’t look like a fucking blackberry with morning stubble, all swollen in different shades of dark blue.

 _He jumped on that man for me_ , he realizes.  _To protect me, however naive his attempt was._

“Ah, well, I had worse-“, starts Grantaire, but his words are cut off when Enjolras leans over the counter and kisses him gently, his left hand reaching out to cradle Grantaire’s face.

They’ve never kissed outside the context of sex before, and then it was always a fierce kind of kissing, teeth and tongues knocking together, lips moving almost aggressively as they tried to get each other undressed as soon as possible. This is something entirely different.

Grantaire is distantly aware of the smell of his bacon burning.

“I’ve got to-“, he murmurs into the kiss, starting to back away, but one of Enjolras’ hands shoots up and curls around his wrist possessively.

“Leave it”, Enjolras mutters, before drawing Grantaire’s lower lip between his own and biting down lightly.

But Grantaire, even though a man falling steadily and horrifyingly in love, can’t just goddamn stand aside and let good bacon burn. He breaks off the kiss abruptly, and turns to grab the frying pan, trying to ignore the disappointed sigh Enjolras lets out, even though it makes his stomach twist pleasantly.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”, Enjolras asks him while he slips the eggs clumsily into two plates.

“I’m kind of great, actually”, Grantaire replies, putting the plates on the counter.

“It’s just how… he almost fucking broke your jaw, and it looked so awful, and it wouldn’t have even happened if I didn’t drag us all out on that protest in the first place, and I’m just…”, Enjolras trails off, then finishes awkwardly, “worried.”

Both of Grantaire’s eyebrows disappear immediately in his hair, and his mouth twitches with the effort of not smiling.

“Shut up”, says Enjolras, blushing.

“You don’t have to worry about me, Enjolras”, says Grantaire softly after a second. “I think I’m doing pretty okay for myself, at the moment.”

And then he kisses him, almost achingly tender, and for a minute breakfast is completely abandoned, until Enjolras forgets about the bruises in his eagerness and there is an undignified yelp of pain from Grantaire.

Then they eat their goddamn bacon and eggs, before they turn cold.

And as he watches Grantaire making them coffee, moving with ridiculous ease in a kitchen that is not his own, Enjolras thinks that maybe, just  _maybe_ , this could work.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this part was far too much enjoyable for me to write.  
> LETS MAKE EVERYONE BLOODY AND BANGED UP AND THEN LET OTHER PEOPLE TENDERLY KISS THEM


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone attends a concert.

It’s a warm summer night, and the jazz concert Combeferre has pestered them all in going to is over, and the pavement in front of the club is clustered with people, muttering appreciatively among themselves.

“Those were two of the most boring - horrible - tedious hours  _of my life_ ”, all but shouts Courfeyrac, barging outside. “It wasn’t even the good kind of jazz, you know, the one you can actually  _dance_  to, it was one of that experimental stuff! Did you hear that trumpet solo? Did you? It was 15 minutes alone!”

“I kind of liked it, actually”, says Jehan, trailing close behind him. His hair is wild tonight, freshly cut, and sticking up in odd curls every here and there.

“Of course  _you_  would  _love_  that kind of stuff, ‘cause you’re weird like that”, Courfeyrac tells him, but his voice is fond.

Bahorel stumbles out next, dramatically groaning.

“Oh my God, it’s over”, he says. “I thought I was never going to see the light of day, ever again.”

“It’s night”, says Feully, lighting a cigarette next to him.

“Listening to 10 minute long improvs on the theme of ‘Summertime’ can do that to a man”, says Courfeyrac compassionately, patting Bahorel on the back.

“Shut up, you philistines”, says Combeferre, joining them. “That was almost a religious epiphany I had in there. Do you think it would be creepy if I waited for the band to come out, and ask them to, I don’t know, sign my forehead?”

“It’s only creepy if you make it so”, replies Courfeyrac. “And, seeing the manic gleam in your eye, I have no doubt you will.”

Joly comes out next, arguing worriedly with Bossuet.

“I tell you, she practically sneezed on me-“

“She blew her nose into a tissue, four feet away from us.”

“And then she grabbed the door handle with the same hand, and you’ve grabbed the door handle after her! This is how influenza is spread! And it’s not even the season, what if she has some mutation of the virus, which…”

Cosette and Eponine walk out together, hunched over Cosette’s camera. Marius, carrying both of their jacket’s for them, trails behind, with a look of complete hopelessness.

“My ladies”, Bahorel says, with a mock bow. “And what did you think of the show, on this fine night?”

“The lighting of this club is fantastic”, is all Cosette says, going through the photos she’s taken.

“It was… different”, answers Eponine diplomatically, glancing at Combeferre’s earnest face.

Enjolras and Grantaire are the last to come out, Enjolras’ hand resting on the small of Grantaire’s back, both snickering between themselves.

“I’m so sorry, ‘Ferre”, Grantaire says, his grin wide. “I think I fell asleep in the first five minutes. Like you don’t know I only came along because of this club’s ‘all inclusive’ policy.”

“But that soulful trump solo woke you right up, didn’t it?”, says Enjolras, an innocent smile to his face. “And what a great solo it was. So…  _jazzy_.”

“I can’t believe this”, Courfeyrac says accusingly to Grantaire. “You’ve turned him completely evil. Now you’ve given him a sense of humor, we just don’t stand a chance anymore.”

“You’ll have to thank me later”, Grantaire replies, yawning. “Right now, I think I’m going to go home to actually die of boredom. Good night, everyone. I’m glad we shared this incredible experience, together.”

But before he even starts to turn away, Enjolras pulls him back abruptly for a kiss.

Everyone groans, except Courfeyrac, who lets out an appreciative ‘damn’.

“Actually”, mutters Enjolras, after a passionate minute which seems far much longer to everybody else, “I think I’m gonna come with. Just to make sure you get there safe, and all.”

“Yeah, okay”, says Grantaire, his voice a little high.

Everybody watches them walk away with a mixture of amazement and amused disgust.

“I can’t believe this day has come”, says Bahorel. “Enjolras is getting laid, and I’m not.”

“It’s probably got nothing to do with your charming and gentle personality”, Feully replies, and winces when Bahorel punches him in the shoulder.

“I think they’re sweet”, says Cosette thoughtfully, and snaps a picture of the pair, already a few feet away,  their backs turned, Grantaire  surreptitiously reaching out for Enjolras’ hand.

“What are you doing?”, shrieks Joly.

“Possible black-mail material”, she says, checking the quality of the photo. “Next time Enjolras grumbles something about Marius and me going to be obnoxious somewhere far from his eyes, I can just show him this.”

“That’s so evil”, says Bahorel. “I love it.”

They all scatter off after that - Joly, Jehan and Courfeyrac in one direction; Bahorel, Bossuet and Feully in the other; Marius and Cosette wander off in pursuit of some good night scenes she wants to shoot ‘while the stars are shining so beautifully’; and then there’s just the two of them.

Eponine lifts her eyes to Combeferre’s and finds that he is smiling.

“Want me to walk you home?”, he says.

She really, really does.

*****

As they walk down the street, she can’t help but notice how good he looks tonight, an old brown leather jacket she’s never seen before thrown over his red plaid shirt, and his hair even fluffier than usual.

In the last few months, she’s grown used to his presence, their easy conversations, his subtle jokes, more than she realized. He was comfortable to be around with, interesting to talk to, and fun to argue with.

She wonders how it is she hasn’t seen him, actually  _seen_ him, sooner.

“Be honest”, he tells her, “did you like the show tonight?”

His expression is worried, and it really is a look she doesn’t see much often on him.

“I, um… weeell, aaaah…”, she drawls out, not wanting to hurt his feelings, but his shoulders already sink a little.

“I’m sorry”, he says. “Was it really that boring for you?”

“No!”, she says quickly.

( _Yes.)_

“It was… interesting. Anyway, you know my music preference, I don’t know why you’re getting so banged up about it.”

“Kind of wanted to do something nice for everyone, what with summer break coming and everything.”

“Don’t tell me you’re having one of those kinds of crisis, because I will kick you”, she threatens.

Sentimentality was never her strongest point.

“I don’t know”, he says, absently kicking a stone off the sidewalk. “I kind of gotten used to seeing all of you every day. And I’m really bad at keeping in touch with people. That’s more like Courfeyrac.”

“Please, like I’m going anywhere”, snorts Eponine. “I’ll be here all summer, working.”

“I’m really happy to hear that,”, says Combeferre quietly after a moment, his hand brushing against hers.

There is a silence, and Eponine is hoping to hell she isn’t blushing.

“I’m loving the jacket”, she says, a little too cheerfully, trying to defuse the tension. “Gives you this whole sexy nerd slash bad boy kind of look. Now only if you’d only get rid of the glasses…”

“I don’t think walking into doors and squinting a lot is something anyone would describe as hot”, he says.

“You’re right”, she agrees, smiling. Then she adds in a conspiratorial whisper: “Actually, don’t tell anyone, but I like the glasses. You can keep ‘em.”

He huffs a laugh, and stops suddenly in his tracks, catching her by the wrist.

She turns to look at him, eyes wide.

“I’m not going to give a big speech, or anything like they do in the movies”, he tells her, his face open and sincere. “But I’ve been thinking about doing this for a long time, now, and I just, well, I think you know, how I feel, I think, at least, and-“

He stutters on, and Eponine still can’t help but think of how adorable he looks when he tries to be all grown up and serious.

So she grabs him with both hands by the lapels of his jacket, and, standing on her tiptoes, kisses him, feeling one of his hands slide around her waist after a moment to support her, and the other reach gently to the back of her neck.

And before she lets herself get lost in the kiss, she thinks that this is the best kind of good there is.


End file.
